The Truth About Artists

I would say that
I am
a flightless bird,
but there was that one time that I had wings
and I still have them
but honestly
between the move and the demons that reared their ugly heads into my safe space
they’re probably shoved in a drawer somewhere,
inside the dresser I painted because I thought I was an artist and I could do anything.

Maybe I could do anything. (But don’t tell me that now.)
I tell myself to appreciate the mornings like I used to,
sip my coffee slowly,
only follow the rules if it is absolutely necessary,
but only break one (or two) at a time.

I know

that I can do anything, (but don’t tell me)
And I know I am not invincible,
but it’s nice to remember that most things are only temporary.

I will figure it out on my own
like I always do
even if I ripped my own wings off.

I can bleed and fly at the same time.

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