Be My Artist

Heat. Long days.
I am who I am, I know.
Alone, I understand these hopes,
these dreams, these idiosyncrasies.

I am proud then
I am confident
I am me

We resume.
Quiet sigh once undisturbed, unquestioned - it was -
Now bombarded, now questioned
now seen as dramatics, as depression

Let thoughts be thoughts,
sighs be sighs;
let emotions simply be.

Sometimes, no question.

Three.
Autopilot and impulsion
Confusion. Back and forth.
Mentally, socially, emotionally indecisive

Pause.

Take me then like me for who you see
Uncover the faults, the lines, the breaks beneath
Sigh. Offer lines of sympathy - or is it truth?

Better still, you could then reshape me.
Scrape me. Chisel away. Paint me.
Make me exceptional; make me acceptable.
Make me diminish, brush off, the turmoil in others.

You can't?

Tear me down to my foundation
Pick and choose my traits, my quirks, my actions.

Gather the materials and build me.
Mold me.

I am clay, red skin and heat.
Craft a version 2.0 to the cricket song,
the pounding bass.

Only when allowed,
fashion a smile upon my mask -
I mean, my face.

Make me whole, because I am not.
Pull the strings so I can only do appropriate things.

Stop. You char the pieces.
I fall to a cloud of dust.

You're all doing, saying, tweaking,
fixing, suggesting what is just.
I should surrender or perhaps
I should close my mouth and learn to trust.