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WHY I TURNED TO WRITING
I’ve seen artists
they draw, sculpt and paint
in a whirlpool of flamboyance.
'twas in my third grade
when my inability to fold paper to make
origami, became my lot;
I was told to be attentive to details
let the lead of my pencil crush
into solid paper, sketches of mountains
beside colored mushrooms, the erasures
a testament of my weakness.
I splatter colors to create
a mosaic. Not good enough.
I've observed artists
the concept, the image of them
like ochre smeared on a canvas
and ivory figures
flashing
I am drawn to their light;
they brew words upon my mouth
mixing them with beauty. I sip slowly
the flavor of awe; scent clinging
on my awkward hands.
