Art Heals our Wounds

Cool air blows through my heat-soaked Toyota Yaris.

It's mid-July 2015, I am twenty years old and wading through community college.

Jet black hair and home-cut bangs.

Protein bars and sparkling green tea cans.

I walk across boiling concrete paths and am beaten down by the midwestern summer sun.

Open, through the double doors.

A staircase to my left, another set of doors ahead.

I fumble with the large drawing bag in my arms

I push through to my class.

The room is dark,

I find my drawing horse and toss my bag to the floor.

A circle of people beside me, but not like me.

I know a lot of them don't want to be here.

This is the only place I want to be.

The graphite stains my fingertips,

the swirl of the black charcoal

eases my soul.

The world outside my art class

no longer exists.

My mind is the echoes of the pencil on paper

I feel at ease

in the earliness of every Tuesday and Thursday morn.

When the world outside

is a rainstorm,

and none of it seems to make sense.

I know my one place to return to,

that easel,

those papers

and pens.

_______________

If you liked this poem, read this next:

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this article, be sure to click the heart button. If you really liked this article, tips are greatly appreciated! You can find more articles from me here on my Vocal profile.

-Leah H.