my fingers belong in the dirt

I got $7 and change
and pen and paper in my pocket
dog tags around my neck 
ragged Converse stuck to my feet
and bit-up fingertips
I don’t look like much
just another face that blends
into the crowd
I am city streets that you have walked on
decrepit buildings you have passed
I am the nature you neglect to see
because you’re too busy searching for beauty
I am one in like… three
average and kind of boring, really

at least on the surface.

I am telling you to give me a chance
to tell you my story
paint you a hundred hues of blue
until you feel so sad you don’t realize
I’m delivering a punchline
let me show you I exist in 
approximately twenty dimensions
one for every single adventure that
can fit into my fingers and my toes 
I am an artist
I turn words into butterflies
and dragons
spit fire like I belong in a circus act
turn air into prose and dirt into poetry
I am a magician
I craft feelings out of every day situations
you tell me about your heartbreak and
I give you another reason to cry
you tell me about love and 
I make you wish you had nothing
I like to turn you upside down
flip your world inside out I want to
melt your heart so I can grow accustomed 
to a warmth that isn’t mine.

I am not someone you would notice
I’ve only ever received zero second glances
and I don’t talk much,
never needed a reason for others to look,
but when they do
I am ready to give them a museum
from the paper and pen I keep in my pockets.
—  My favorite thing about artists