like she’s taking it all in you know ? the lights , the crowd , the realisation that this is now her life that her dream is no longer a dream but a real thing, the little girl that was once afraid of singing in front of people, the shy and awkward yet cute teenager that one day decided to audition for xfactor and they told her that the odds of her actually gettin to audition was of 1 % but still she didn’t give up and now that same girl is singing in front of thousands of people , sell out arenas , she’s doing what she absolutely loves the most with 4 of her best friends , the same girl that is now an idol for thousands of girls around the world and i couldn’t be more proud.
she says, “you’re not a poet,” her eyes like the black moon on nights when your father’s spilled coffee was always your fault. she says it calmly, so when the arrow pierces through your heart, it does so slowly. you feel it burrow for days in the darkest places, the hungry shadows where you keep all of your secrets that are too hot to touch. she says, “you’re not an artist. you’re just someone who got lucky on the internet.”
the static starts in your fingertips, a great buzzing of letters she has spat at your feet until they become something more, something heavy. your mother always warned you against internalizing the things you hear. you only ever internalize the bad things. the static is building, and it is every failure of your life in a bright blank screen. you learned a long time ago that white is every color - and maybe this is why when you cough up her suckerpunch, it tastes like ivory.
listen. there is a wind in your blood and that’s why your feet never feel like they’re home. listen. put the pen down to paper and scrub her out of you. listen, write a slam poem about people who think that certain mediums in art just aren’t good enough. listen.
you are a wild thing and you will break them. the doodles on the margins of your notebooks all tell good stories. the songs you sing when no one is listening - endless tuneless things - are already wonders. the way you dance while drunk and alone is exactly the way that you should make love. listen.
art is evolving. take yours with you. never let them tell you it’s not good enough. publish it whereever you want: spray it on buildings, tape it to telephone poles, make an internet post at 5:35 on a Sunday morning. who cares. the purpose of art is to create. the purpose of art is to be art.
listen: art was never supposed to be theirs. art was never supposed to rest only in the hands of those who thought themselves important. art was supposed to be the only thing good about society: our books, our words, our rhythm, the turn of our feet. listen. creation doesn’t need to be oil paintings of jesus being taken into heaven to be worthy of our attention. listen. art is evolving, and so are we.
she says, “you’re not a poet just because you think you are,” but the funny thing is: she’s completely wrong. to name yourself poet is to be poet. write things no one will understand. write because the bird in you will suffocate if you do not let her sing. write because you are a beating heart and sharp teeth and your shaking hands could bring down cities.
listen. what they don’t want you to know is that the only difference between a “real” artist and anyone else is that the “real” artist kept making things no matter what anyone else felt. eventually, their names became gold. that can be you. just keep working and one day they will trip over themselves to see you. keep working. listen. they want to take your voice because it’s the most powerful weapon you have against them. make them listen.
you don’t need someone’s permission to be what you are. fall in love with whatever it is that powers your blood, and fall hard.
“you’re not a real artist bc u post on the internet” yeah but idc about whatever you just said // r.i.d