My Voice

Before I was a droning voice, I was lost within the noise. 

I discovered a hidden talent, suddenly my art was the noise,

I am no longer lost.

The strokes hold my thoughts and the image holds my cause, 

I am no Robert Frost, words are not my boss. 

The paintings I paint are my voice, 

I am good because I need to express what wont be listened to. 

Do you hear me? Are you even listening?

Must you see in order to feel.

See all the sights, shining suddenly in your eye.  

A picture says a thousand words but how about a Painting? 

Do you hear my voice as it speaks to you upon a canvas? 

Know all that I say, what I work for but do you? 

My art is a feeling. Nothing that words can describe. The art is the center of my heart. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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