My Little Art Studio
My painting studio is small,
a shirt pocket stitched onto the day,
just big enough for the things I carry
and the things I've yet to name.
It holds my half‑formed confidence,
my occasional impostor ghosts,
lets them sit over in the corner
without making a fuss.
It hears me pick at the guitar in my head,
humming whatever tune wanders through,
never asking for a full song,
never minding the unfinished.
It doesn’t judge the pictures I toss,
the ones that didn’t quite land,
the ones that felt like they were trying too hard.
It just lets them go instead.
It listens to me talk to my dogs
like they’re old familiar friends,
Stretched out in my walking space,
who know what I'm going to say before I say it.
This place, my studio,
my retreat, my thought vault,
my slightly shrunken getaway
holds me without ceremony.
For now, it’s enough.
Because it’s mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment