I Wanted to Be an Artist

I wanted to be an artist,

when I was young

and yearning for a romantic sort of life,

I dreamed of an easel in the corner

and a mug of coffee near a stained cup of dipped brushes

of whatever studio I occupied,

starving

and painting my way toward something meaningful.

I wanted to be an artist,

because the fun of creation and the burdens of editing,

have always been a great delight,

Superpowers may not be real

but an artist's tools can work a similar kind of magic,

whether it be a pen, a brush, or a keyboard,

my only limits are my need for sleep,

and the pains from hunger.

I wanted to be an artist,

because I wanted someone to look at my work

and think I was worth praising,

I wanted to prove to my parents that I, too-

not just my brothers,

could be someone worthwhile.

I wanted to be an artist,

despite my lack of training

because I believed if I worked hard

if I bought the paints, the sketchbooks, the grammar checkers,

and tried being creative,

that someday I'd get it,

that dream of creation I so hungered for.

And now, I am an artist,

one with messy sketchbooks, mugs, and a humble apartment

there's an easel, barely used, folded up in the closet

and a desk to write poems, where a cup of lukewarm coffee sits,

and the only thing missing-

the romanticism of hunger,

which has thankfully passed with maturity

and a stable day job.