I think one of the most amazing days in my life was the day I was told that my writing was art. When people hear “art” they think Van Gogh, Picasso, and Monet; they might even think of Beethoven and Mozart as well. But I wonder if people also think of Miss Angelou or Edgar Allan Poe? Are we not held in the same degree? But I mustn’t be too upset because I used to think the same way, but the real question is why.
If I make one line of text make you feel like you just hiked up a mountain of your fears, is that not art?
If six words could make you choke back tears before bursting into the flames of your past, is that not art?
If I use the subtlety of my metaphors to crash the world around you and make you rethink everything you’ve come to know, is that not art?
Who says my pencils and keyboards aren’t paint brushes illustrating my very existence and coloring outside the lines of life’s clouds?
I take pride in my art because my words take you from your comfort and drown you until you see that you love water on your lips and a slow motion world and make you realize that you can breathe underwater.
But if that’s not art, then I don’t know what is.