Artists are those
Forces against nature
To create even when they are given
Everything they desire;
I am not he.

Contrived,
Are the children of my fingers
So delicately thrown into the earth
To be judged.

Yet I continue to craft
For the beauty of [my] voice
Careening over silk threads and yarn
Because I want to feel,
Not for I am an artist.

Sparks,
Like Forth of July exclamation points-
Aroused from subway cars,
Street lamps,
Lucid hues,
Thoughts from an organic place,
Children laughing,
Handmade pattern dresses
And witty conversations.

Creation is no longer,
A Darwin pipedream
But homespun vision that
Designs itself with me.

These products of mental freedom
Are more than empty compositions,
They are infused with my chromosomes,
My fiber of being.

Honest of its origins,
The hodgepodge of lining
And imperfect seams;
Narrate a flawed story
And authentic identity.