My heart is too big

My heart is too big

To fit on my sleeve-

Too many thoughts,

Too much to believe.

 

A kaleidoscope mind

Stuck only with grey,

A symphony soul

With one note to play.

 

I reach for the words

To hang on each thought,

How can I prove

That I’m not a robot?

 

For women are supposed

To show what they feel,

Their face and their body

Can never conceal

 

The waves of emotion

Crashing up and down,

To light up with joy

Or collapse with a frown.

 

People think that you’re fine

Unless your eyes leak

Your sadness straight down

Your shuddering cheeks.

 

They won’t know you’re in love

Unless you preen and flirt,

And follow the script

And never assert.

 

I’ve tried and I’ve tried

To be what they expect,

But I’m either quiet

Or unfailingly direct.

 

These games of hearts

Are not worth the charades;

And as for charm:

I don’t have it in spades.

 

I can’t be a wall flower

When I’m so off-the-wall,

And if I could choose

I wouldn’t change it at all.

 

My mind is just right

To fit in a book,

So I write and I write

And I hope people look.

________________________________________________________

Image source “Poppy Field”- Vincent Van Gogh

Art is not made in a studio.

Art is not made in a studio.

Art comes from stumbling steps and laden hearts,

Wandering minds and outstretched arms:

Art is hurt.

Art is born in the grit

That gathers under fingernails,

The sweat that betrays a body’s true odor:

Art is dirty.

Art that comes from sanitized halls and swept clean minds,

Sparkling white and cold to the touch

Does not strike true.

Art is the guttural shriek

That we all secretly make behind closed doors,

Fists clenched, trembling lips asking questions like

Why?

We need art.

Where it’s safe and beautiful to cry,

Where we can see our heart mirrored in a picture or a song and know

We’re not alone.