The Artist

I am a happy person.

And that sentence either means that I truly am happy, or inside I’m depressed.

But I really am a happy person.

With me, what you see is what you get.

And when I was younger, all the good poems were sad but they made your thoughts melt.

So I began to write sad poems but…

That wasn’t how I felt.

I was a happy kid.

My fate had been sealed.

But I wrote so that maybe someone else would read it and say “yes! That’s exactly how I feel!”

Because the persona you put on during the day, that’s fake.

But what’s in that writing journal, that’s real.

But over time I was writing something I didn’t believe.

Because I could no longer understand the means

By which we would look at the same piece of grass and I’d say “flowers” and others said “weeds”.

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See, life is like art.

Two people can look at the same mural and say two different things.

One could say it was beautiful or amazing

While another could say it was ugly or boring.

And we spend our whole lives trying to figure out who we are.

The person that says it’s good or the person that says it’s bad but that’s not what your part is.

What you have to realize in life is that you are not the spectator because you are the artist.

Your life is your mural and it is what you make of it.

And if you don’t like something about your mural then you have to pick a color and change it.

Because you’re either gonna smile at your mural

Or cry as you walk away from it.

And I plan to smile.

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I plan to live my life loud and not in a hush.

Because I know that the second I don’t like something about my mural,

I’ll reach for my paintbrush.