Who says
That your art
Isn't good
To live by the rules
Art has no limits
But what your eyes behold
Showing the feeling
That is within
The chaos of your mind
Running free
And letting you shine
Expressing the desires
That keep you sane
Who says
That you aren't an artist
Whether your work
Is on a paper towel
A car
Yourself
Even washing a window
Everything is a masterpiece
Where is the passion
That makes you soar
Like a fire in your bones
Burning brighter
Then the sun ever thought of
Who says
That you're not good enough
If it's what you love
Then you are already there
So get up and drive
Kick that desire
Into max gear
Love the things
That your heart can hear
About the Creator
Kayton Hickenlooper
I write to clear my mind. To get out of the fog of daily confusion. An artist by heart. To live, laugh, and grow.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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