I write a lot of poetry that comes from within when I can no longer express myself clearly. It can be what I’m doing at the moment or what’s pulsing inside. It must get out. I used to draw by hand and every blue moon I will draw one thing. But my art is not what it used to be. I am not what I used to be.
My drawing as a kid at in school got me in trouble. I did it during class when what I was learning didn’t interest me. Teachers would take my notebook, or scold me. One kept my notebook and I never got it back. I tried to smash my drawing hand on things to stop it from being creative. I used my fist, or a book, or I step on it. That hand would not stop.
When I reached high school the teasing started. I drew dark creatures, or nude models from my own mind and I’d get scolded again and teachers had to complain and my parents chimed in. I vowed to stop. drawing was my addiction, but it wouldn’t. I safety pinned my hand. running the pin through the top skin and ripping it out until I couldn’t find a calloused path. I wasnt trying to bleed. Just hurt the hand that didn’t know how to stop. /the pain was enough to cause my hand to tremble and to keep it from drawing for a day. Cold water stung and warm water soothed. I did this only 3 times. that one high school year. I stopped. Not because I wanted to, but because I wasnt going to use any safety pin except the one from the dry cleaners. And we hadnt gone in a while.
10-12th year my art started to struggle. No new ideas and my hand would tremble when I picked up an ink pen. Nothing would seep through my fingertips the way it needed. Soon I turned to poetry. Something I refused to do for awhile because no one could appreciate the complexity of it. Hand drawn art you had to use your own mind and find the story. Poetry in a way is too plain as day at times. Sadly now it’s all I really have.
A tired hand that has seen hell and for now seems to work. I type what I feel, because the other is nearly lost. Oh abstracts have been stronger, but other things seem to weak. animals, trees always week. And the eyes…the eyes still survived my trials. That’s all I can keep now is eyes and abstracts. ‘The eyes see all, and the abstract around it tries to keep the eye from itself.
I’m tired now. So I need to fade back and rest.