Somedays she had painters block,

Or her anxiety kicked in,

And she couldn’t paint,

The art she usually did.

So,

She would dip her paintbrush,

In the color black,

And paint the streetlight,

On West Maine.

Or she would paint,

The library girl,

Who was reading,

A slight smile on her face.

The smell of acrylic paint,

Filled her nose,

And her forearms,

Where splattered with colors,

Dark colors.

And then she would,

Wash her paintbrush,

And dip it a bright color,

She would swirl,

And clump the dark and light together,

Until they formed something breathtaking.

Because someone had once told her,

“Creativity is beautiful,”

And it was.

Then her anxiety didn’ t see as bad,

And the funky art piece,

Was hung on her wall,

Covered with art,

Of all kinds.

But this art piece,

Was perfectly unique,

Because the light,

Encased the dark,

And the swirling storm,

Of overthinking,

And fear,

Was trapped too.

Because creativity was beautiful,

And so was her soul.