There is somthing we call art.

It exists everywhere we look.

Such a variety in the world-not one the same.

All original-never having the same name.

Our definitions are never alike,

Because your medium is different from mine.



There is a feeling i know-called inspiration.

It flows through me freely, causing much appreciation.

I cant even begin to explain the joy flowing through me when:

I look at my painting and its completely unique,

When the words in my poem rhyme perfectly,

Or when the notes i play and sing are right on key.

.....

I pick up a paintbrush, run my fingers through the top.

I dip it in paint then let it dance across the canvas-feels like time stops.

The colors blend perfectly.

I take a step back and look at my painting,

And it tells a story.

What i hope to have done is to put a little peice of me

On this canvas

And look what it has become.

I feel the inspiration overtaking my soul.



I place my hands on these very familiar keys.

Everytime i hope a little peice of me shines as i play.

I take a deep breat, clear my mind, and start to sing.

I am who I am, nothing but me.

My hands skip gracefully here and there,

As my voive freely travels without a care.

When i play and sing my mind just floats.

Music is what i call and edles combination of lyrics and notes.

I feel the inspiration overtaking my soul.



I pick up a pen and paper with a mind full of ideas and thoughts.

Once the ink starts flowing, i cant make it stop.

My memories, dreams, and hopes are now for the world to see,

Each poem containing a little part of me.

My cloudy mind takes over-i surrender to the paper,

And let the words write themselves.

When i read back over a poem ive written,

The words need to flow together, to be remembered, never forgotten.

I feel the inspiration overtaking my soul.