There are pastels and acrylics,
Water colours and oils.
For every empty canvas,
An opportunity to vibrantly portray emotional torment at its extremes.
Every stain, a physical representation of the internalised screams.
While each slope symbolises instability,
And varying shades of a single colour attempts to depict the blurred line between nightmares and reality.
It must be amazing being able to express yourself through art.
There are plasticines and all things mouldable,
Exquisite flower vases and cups only designed for use at the breakfast table.
Explain to me once more, pardon my repetition,
The joys of watching life germinate from skillfully molded products of your depression.
Or the irony of one rehydrating themselves with ceramic vessels designed through waterlogged eyes,
And dry patchy skin, the body acting out of dehydration.
It must be amazing being able to express yourself through pottery.
There are strings and drums,
Woodwinds and your lungs.
Melodies with beautiful relentless symphony,
Multiple instruments all together in harmonious synchrony.
Even with the voice of an angel, it’s the lyrics that cut the deepest,
The vibrations in the air, they tell a story.
Although sopranos may not always indicate suicidal thoughts of drowning in the middle of the sea,
And contralto may not necessarily voice out your lowest moments,
It must be amazing being able to express yourself through music.
But what do I know
Despite being surrounded by all this talent
Poetry remains my greatest escape.