The tip of my pencil snapped.
My eyes scanned over broken edges of graphite
Like craters containing the dark mysteries no one dared touch—
But I let my fingers collect every grey smudge
And watched them wrap around the edges of my hands
As the texture of my skin stretched and said,
Then my mind stepped back as my body felt
The bent plastic of my chair in the space my desk left—
I saw a professor lean forward in his wheelchair and say to me,
“There is no black or white
When you ask the right–
So I sharpen my next thought into another image:
I start drawing lines into trees and circles into bubbles—
I crash roots into ships and make light bulbs into portals—
I climb mountains and throw rivers where there are no creatures—
I wait for life to grow from the ground like a puzzle
But I see a world overcome by shadows in black and white
Too dark to see or too blank to think—
Waiting for an imagination to give them life—
But they missed the best part of living.
They lost the color behind their eyes,
And forgot the beauty in the mystery.
And when did we stop painting… or drawing… or writing?
I feel like there are more blank pages than there are pictures—
And my heart breaks at the thought of someone thinking
They are too old for living
In an age where we send more texts than we say words,
And ask social media more questions than we do ourselves,
I am afraid we had missed out on the very things that make us who we are.
Have we traded our creation of life and new ideas for
A black and white picture that holds more of the same
And less of who we are?
Who are we?
Are we consuming, or are we creating,
And what does any of this mean?
I’m not entirely sure, but my heart beats for something.
More than… a fad diet, a smaller waist size, a larger twitter following,
Or a thicker wallet—
I want to grip the edges of something different—
Of something resting deep within the caverns of my mind,
Where words live and secrets hide—
Where people stop
And find beauty in their person.
I will see past computers and TV screens,
I will toss out self-deprecating magazines,
And color in the black and white paintings they make for me—
Because I am still discovering
I am always finding new pieces of myself,
And I need no guidance from books labeled “self-help”
Or dark stares telling me I should be someone else—
I am tired of people deciding for me who I should be.
I am going to search through the piles of papers laid out for us
And color over them with our own touch
Of art and the purpose we hold inside our hands—
Be open to grey mixing up your black and white,
Allow room for questions with no answers–
And Run barefoot at night—
Let your hands paint over your adventures
When you your eyes for those hidden caverns,
Because this life is meant to be lived!!
And sometimes it’s good for the edges to give,
Because craters push us into unknown places
And give us reasons to move from our stagnate states,
So like the edge of my pencil, broken but working,
I will dig till I find something right.
I will write till I find a piece of my meaning—
That’s my answer to life.