I was born into a world of creativity. I’m convinced I saw color before my eyes could fully open, and I heard music before I could walk. I was always observing my surroundings, taking in every detail. A lot of kids my age thought I was strange (which I most likely was, and still am), because I was very quiet. I paid attention to every sound on the street, the colors of the leaves, what the grass felt like underneath my toes, and paid very little attention to making conversation with classmates.

I discovered very quickly in school that I hated math, dreaded gym, and thought science was, you know, alright I guess. But, english, band class, and art were something that I looked forward to every year, and thrived in.

Growing up, I had a lot of guidance in the arts, thanks to some very influential people that helped to shape my life choices and inspire me to continue to follow my passions.

My Dad is a truly gifted musician, and through this, he introduced me to one of my biggest loves. His entire side of the family, from my grandparents to my aunts, uncles, and cousins, are creators; they’re artists, actors, and designers. My brother and sister both actively embrace the arts and have real talent, and one of my best friends is one of the most talented makeup artists I’ve ever seen.

Now, as a young adult, I am a Creative Writing Major, and I identify as both a musician and a writer. This is what I want to be known for, and this is what I will live for.

I have gotten countless skeptical looks and the anticipated question, “well, what are you going to do with that?” I have faced constant doubt - from society, from others, and from myself, in the path I am choosing to take with my future. I realize that I am not the only person in the arts feeling this way. And so, this poem is dedicated to all the artists, musicians, and writers that are confronted with these challenges. I hope that by reading it, you all might feel some level of comfort and confidence in your creativity, and embrace it fully.

You were born a

creator,

a maker of

things only you see.

Your hands are the greatest tools

of vision,

translation,

communication,

so others

can live and breathe

your vision.

You grew up in

color,

enclosed in a

vibrant

charade of

rainbows

that came to

life when you

were handed a

brush,

some paint, and

learned

what

happens when

they

touch paper.

You breathe in

inspiration, and

put your soul

on

public display

when

you stand

on that stage, and

let your fingers do the talking

on that

beat-up

saxophone you got

when you were ten years old.

You live for the

exhilaration of your

own thrillers; sensation

novels that you

know the ending to

before they even begin, and

somehow

still feel excitement

with each turn of

the page and

each path you take.

You are a magician.

You turn ordinary faces into

goblins and green witches,

sultry mermaids, and

unknown aliens from

foreign places, all with a

few flicks of the wrist, and

some makeup for

the trick of transformation,

to make a woman who hasn’t felt

beautiful since her husband left her,

or the cancer found her,

smile again

when she looks in the mirror.

You are told to

grow up,

that you could be

so much more than

what you are now, and

that you can’t

make a living

Off of living

this way.

Your limitation depends on

the imagination that

spans

your body,

runs through

your veins.

It will never falter,

know that it is

beautiful, and

to never change.