Walking in the Park

Somedays I wake up
and I'm already sad.


Somedays I wake up
and question what I'm doing.


Is this what I should do?
Why am I unhappy?
Where am I going?


Somedays I wake up
and really wish I 
was not an artist.


I sometimes admit 
in some sector of my brain
that maybe I am an artist.
I know I'm delving
into being an intellectual,
being a creative.
I think I might be an artist.


And somedays 
I pull my sheets across my face
and regret this 
realization,
this part of me.


I think artists are born
with brains that 
truly function on a different level,
on a parallel plane.
Left of center. 


This genre of people
are more different than different.
And I don't know how
or why but I think it's true.


The perspective is totally different,
the thoughts, functioning, living,
it's different.


And I think perhaps 
I have that.


It could just be me 
being a teenager.


But another part farther
within me says,
"wake up stupid- this is your life,
you're stuck with this thing
in your brain." 


I wish society didn't make it seem
so impossible to be an artist.
Maybe it is impossible
-I know it's hard, very hard.
But what the hell else can I do?


I am becoming who I am,
I am learning to live with my life.


Slowly.
Coming into my own.


Somedays
it's sad and lonely.
Others it's fiery and alive.
mostly it just lives within me
making an impossible nest
and telling me softly not to 
give in, not to let go.


Because this little part of me
is the reality I want to subscribe to,
but can't bring myself to .


My philosophical problems haunt me.