My art belongs to me, just to me.

However, once it leaves my creative hand,

it's as if the umbilical cord is cut,

and it begins a life of its own,

making new friends,

talking to new souls.

It may travel through hearts,

or may be passed incognito by many,

but if it captures the attention of one,

who wants to adopt it as own,

it becomes the child or friend of that new art-lover

and leaves my nest for a life of its own.


My hand moves as if it were independent of me.

I wonder how it knows where to go, what to paint.

I see images in my mind's eye,

but my hand moves at a different pace,

uncontrolled by me

My hand is like a young puppy,

too eager to explore the world.

In time, I'll train it to follow

my whims, to go where I choose,

and then I'll be known as a mature

and seasoned artist,

whether or not a better one is questionable.



Treasure island

I can't stop writing,

can't stop painting, or sculpting.

I find solace in creativity.

It is a journey within me,

a discovery tour of my interior.

I'm beautiful outside and in.

My inside pours out,

My outside searches in.

I'm swimming in obscure waters,

finding new lands.

I'm a treasure island

known by very few

Robinson Crusoe is my name.


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