Artistry In Me

I wish I were a poet. That I had a lilting way with voluminous words, without having to think much about it. That my thoughts would pour out in a less prosaic way. That my fingers would dance across the keyboard, instead of merely banging away.

It’s a petty wish, I know.

I write the way that I write, because that is what is inside of me.

As much as I talk, and over-use words verbally, I find my vocabulary economical and bland when I write.

Not a criticism, just an observation.

These are the things I think about when I’m not really doing much else. When I’m listening to music with a touch of melancholy in its tune, and I’m doing some mindless task.

I realize that I’ve never read much good poetry. Why is that?

I don’t recall reading much of it in school, even in literature classes. That can’t be the fault of the classes, though, because there is so much Literature to be had, and choices must be made.

I used to write poetry. Years and years ago, when I was a teenager.

I don’t think I’ve written much since then.

I used to paint. I haven’t since the very early days of my marriage.

I used to sketch. Simplistic drawings, usually of something in the faerie realm.

Now, I claim my creative outlet is scrapbooking.

Interesting, to say the least.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve settled for a stall in the growth of the artist in me, when I didn’t need to. I don’t really know.

It just is what it is for now, and I’m left wishing I were a poet, wondering if there is still artistry in my mind and heart and fingers.

Grace & Peace,


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