This Art Runs Through My Veins

Creativity seeps from my wounds.
Stories made out of broken pieces.
Art that rises from the ashes of my soul.
The phoenix of my demise is the birth of my story.
Without hurt I have no tale to tell.
The mourning gives me room to rise.
To let my pain be a lesson and not a poem of tragedy.
I speak to those who are emotional kin.
Allowing myself to endure pain.
Speaking of triumph when the storm lifts.
Without these wounds I have no voice.
This pain gives me power.
The power to create.
The power to inspire.
I takes pleasure in the misery.
My wounds spill the beauty of my mind.
Only a tortured mind can give life to a complicated work of art.
A masterpiece dripping from my veins.
This masterpiece that is myself.

-Asia Aneka Anderson, This Art Runs Through My Veins 2015©

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