Make Some Art for the Artist

What happens to art when it stops being for the artist? While the world loves a good crowd pleaser, we don’t really make room in our hearts for pretenders. I started writing – I don’t even know how many years ago. It was just, what I did.

“Oh that girl? Yeah, she writes on her blog and stuff”

When did I stop taking pride in being referred to that way?

When you’re good(well, subjectively speaking) at something, it is just expected that you make something out of it. You’re good at kicking things? you’re expected to try and eventually become a professional football player. You can stab something and watch it bleed without passing out? Maybe go study to be a surgeon then. In all seriousness, that’s what talent is: a conjuror of expectations. Both to the world and oneself. When these expectations are not satisfied, what IS talent, but a crippling burden? Do you know what’s worse than feeling talentless? It is knowing you’re good, but not good enough. Having flown so high, only to drop before you could taste the stars.

So I ended up studying to be an engineer. I learnt all those mathematical principles. I’ve got to put them to use somewhere, right? When you can’t find the solution to a complicated problem, you don’t always have to move forward. You can take a step back, move in a different direction, compare outcomes and go with the better alternative. Heard of backtracking, bitches? Sorry. I get defensive when the nerd comes out. So lets all take step back together. 1-2- cha cha- huh?

What if you don’t “fail”?. What if, you’re really good at something and make it in that scene? What if I’d become the greatest blogger in the world? Would that have guaranteed satisfaction? Would have I kept writing and loved every second of it? Wait a minute, success never had anything to do with why I started writing in the first place. I wrote because I loved to read; because writing is the best experience I’ve had at feeling; writing was breathing. And I’m guessing all the psychos who started stabbing when they were kids loved doing it later in life even if they weren’t doing it in operation theatres. This “expected outcome” was NEVER part of the experience. People who develop these so-called “talents”, most often do not really set out to do so. They were just doing what they loved, and had a natural competence for it or the desire to try.

I’m here, months, maybe years later, with my complete mental calibre and sense of humour intact, telling you to go do a bit of what you love, for you. Life’s really short and unpredictable as recent worldly events have reminded me. Regardless of how far you’ve come, regardless of what people think, make some art for the artist. Because who’s going to enjoy your work more than it’s ideal target audience? You.

-The Obsessive Writer.

Hope Is All Too Common An Ail

What’s going on with the world?

How is everybody at peace?

The depressed are sent to therapy,

But who make no sense are those that are happy.

Your unsuspecting well-wisher,

Wonder what they do, when you’re not around to hear.

Have you ever wondered what everybody thought?

The angel in your mind is someone else’s thot.

You ever try to make a change?

Made empty self promises to never be dubbed deranged?

You ever feel so proud?

Then watch your strength shatter as you’re shot down from that cloud?

Why try when you’re guaranteed to fail?

Hope is all too common an ail.

©️ Abirami

The Self Proclaimed Loner

Even the middle of a mob can be a lonely place

To a self proclaimed misunderstood soul

Do I not know what to say?

My words seem to reach their ears

But all meaning simply echoes away.

Do they live a life so different from mine?

We all feel, bleed and heal

But somehow I feel less important pain.

It’s funny how,

When you’re dealt a bad hand,

And you’re looking for someone to blame,

The first victim is always on the other side of a mirror.

Its tragic how,

You give your all to someone,

And receive nothing in return but shame,

The expectant fate of an obedient giver.

In this particular lonely corner of a crowded room,

I ask myself,

Can a soul be so misunderstood it doesn’t understand itself?

©️ Abirami

Afraid

Afraid to love;

It is a tremendous burden to bear,

To have somebody.

Afraid to lose,

It is a pain unlike any other,

The soul’s malady.

Happiness is a precarious possession,

To a heart soon to be destitute of love.

For there is a fate worse than death

To live, but never whole again for another breath.

©️ Abirami

Makeup Routine

Every morning like clock work

With the rise of dawn

Arises my need,

The need to cover up.

A few strokes of brushes,

A few dabs of paints,

When I’m done and look in the mirror,

I wonder,

What did I spend all this time covering up?

Imperfections or my identity?

Too bad they don’t make concealer for your personality.

©️ Abirami

ROSES


This is my first attempt at digital art. Please let me know what you think! 😀 I couldn’t find a mouse so I had to make do with the touch pad of my laptop which is why the drawing is a bit trash.

Your feedback is much appreciated! Thank you 🙂

– The Obsessive Writer

King

Told me I needed no knight in shining armour,

Told me I wasn’t a damsel in distress.

He said,

Every day I’ll work on making your dreams come true,

And every night I’ll rule them.

What he didn’t have to say,

And I already knew,

Is that he is mine and I am his.

For better or for worse,

We will always be ours.

©️ Abirami.