I am delicate.
My bones made of china and skin of paper
I am delicate
But I am not weak.

I am a beacon.
I have worlds rushing inside my brain that struggle to escape as my hand writes as fast as it can to keep up with my plot lines.

I am a planet.
I paint scenes that I never knew existed, sketching hands before I know the names of muscles

I am soft.
I absorb knowledge like a sponge and yet I am always parched because the tears that escape my saltwater eyes go to my notepad not to my fists.

I am fragile.
I have a paintbrush for a spine and typewriter knuckles.
But they're weaved with vines strong enough to withstand the winter.
I am natures greatest gift.
Of creativity.

18.3.16