2007
I wish I was a great artist able to sketch... paint...smear...blend...craft...my pain onto a HUGE, big canvas. I want to use charcoal, oils, latex, acrylic, pencil, airbrush...hell, I don't care. Anything but these same old stupid words that cain't even begin to fully convey all of the emotions rolling, running...tripping over themselves...swirling in my head.
I wish I was a great artist able to mold ugly, sticky, lumpy clay into some fantastic work of art that would SCREAM to the world each and every one of my fears concerning the future. I mean, I want my art to reach out and GRAB the people and shake the hell out of them. Wake them the fuck up and make them acknowledge all of the pain I feel each day. My pain...their pain...the pain of that homeless person on the corner...I feel it all. Any maybe if everyone were like me, then maybe juss maybe, we could make change...see change...BE change.
I wish I was a fantastic artist, but instead, I'm stuck being a so-called poet. And I'm no great wordsmith so I tend to repeat... regurgitate...plagiarize myself trying to make all I feel clear - to show it. See, I aspire to be talented enough to touch souls but the words I speak seem to be filled with holes. They do nothing to fully explain this all-consuming...debilitating anguish that stops my heart...tenses my muscles and monopolizes my brain.
I wish I was a great artist able to sketch... paint...smear...blend...craft...my pain onto a big, HUGE canvas. I want to use charcoal, oils, latex, acrylic, pencil, airbrush...hell, I don't care. Anything but these same old stupid words that cain't even begin to fully convey all of the emotions...but I'm not. I can't do any of that. So I juss sit here hoping that these stupid words can paint a picture for people. One vivid enough to make people see that what I do is nothing special - it's juss my version of art.
Dionne K. Kelly