Just Make Art, They Say

L.M. Cole

Well, I’m trying. I may as well be

sprouting feathers or potatoes

for the amount of art I’m spouting,

which is about a trickle or maybe

an ooze. Slow as my cramped hand, curled

around a crumpled page. Compelling, this

need to be creating and creating. I could

take a candle burned to char and streak

the soot on my face and call it

art. I would hold an egg in my left

hand until I’ve imbued it with my pulse

or crushed it to pulp and call it

art. Scream into the stream of my

own consciousness, frantically

stagnant.

Try harder,

I hear, though nobody is saying

that part out loud, silent as stars

and just as blurry when I’m paint

deep in the effort of unlocking

all this art. I’ll gather my candles,

my eggs, my thoughts, then

maybe I’ll sprout wings before

I’ve finally made enough art.