To The Artist

 I’ve always been an artist. At a young age before I fell in love with anything else, I fell in love with color. I met God in the art I created. 

I discovered the power of creativity within the confined walls of my 1 bedroom apartments. As a small child I never knew what I wanted, I couldn’t understand how to ask for my needs so my parents never knew that I wanted and desired to be an artist. They never knew that I dreamed of coloring the sky, and to write love stories about this life. I don’t blame them, I’ve been learning to thank them for allowing me to discover who I was not, so I could begin to become who I am. I spent a lot of my nights in my twenties asking God to reveal himself to me before I knew who He actually was. At that stage of my life I was used to numbing myself out, and the only time I felt truly alive was when I was creating something. Life became clearer, I found my voice, and I began to believe that this world was still meant for beautiful things. This poem is for the artists, the dying, the searching, and the ones who have yet to realize who they are. I’ve been you, I’ve seen you, and I’ve fallen in love with you. I’ve come to know the power of the spoken word, and the emotion that can pour out from a simple photograph. It’s a language that I’ve attached myself too. One from heavens that I constantly return to. I find God there, and he finds me. He meets me at open and closed doors, He gives me words to speak, and colors to create. He teaches me about who he is every time I write a word or take a photo. It’s how I learn, It’s how I began to see, began to speak, and began to dream. When God revealed himself to me, He did it through art. He showed me the light in dark spaces, the hidden color within the black and the whites, and the voices that need to be heard. When I wrote this poem, the artist within me was dying. That’s the thing about death though, it always provides a re-birth even if you can’t see it at the time. What was dying was the artist I thought I wanted to be, what was being born was the artist I was meant to be. 

Love, 

Lily

God bring back the artist. 

Bring back the Light in her eyes. 

Help her bloom. 

Give her a heart that always seeks you. 

A spirit that longs for you. 

Give her hands to plant gardens, and eyes to see this world the way you do. 

Breathe life back into her. 

Help her breathe.

Help her stand tall, 

Help her trust that she will be held when she falls. 

Show her the colors of your sky. 

Show her the beauty of your people. 

Show her the stories waiting to be told, and the voices longing to be heard. 

Show her how to dance with this part of herself again. 

LPM