The Voice Issue 30: July/August 2017 - Page 16


There is art in my throat.

It has clogged my airways

and stolen my words.

It continues to float on up,

promising me beauty,

but as I open my mouth

or extend my hands to create,

they expand.

The ideas in my brain run rampant

and I debate whether or not

the art or the artist is in control.

Gripping me by the hair,

my music jerks my head around

like an impatient child

pulling at the reins of a horse.

The gray days are rain days.

My barn weathers the storm,

droplets rolling down off dirtied gutters

like jewels.

I am stuck out in pasture,

feeding off muddied thoughts

as my art tugs at my hair,

lifting my head to the sky to look at the gray.

My art is waiting for the perfect day to parade me around,

before leaving me in the mud and torn weeds again.

Until then,

I shall keep my nose pressed to the dirt

in hopes of leading myself to my own pride.

Words and music build in my mind

the more I inhale.

Every hot breath I draw

causes the notes to pound

and ring out

with a newfound power

I wish I could capture.

More often than not,

I find they gather too quickly,

and I am left with balled up papers

and frustrated ink trails running down my cheeks

because there is so much to create

that I cannot.

The gray days are the worst days.

Among the gloom and the fog and the clouds,

I crave color and the art sits in the driver's seat.

My feet walk without knowing why,

leading me to blank papers

waiting to be spread across a beaten desk,

waiting to be covered in hasty graphite,

waiting to be crumpled,

and waiting to be burned.

The gray days are hesitant days.

The gray days are composing days.

The gray days are writing days.

The gray days are painting days.

The gray days are frustration days.

The gray days are "why can't I create" days.

The gray days are.

The gray days will be.

The gray days are rain days.

The Gray Days