Blog. Fresh Ink

“The Cry of Art”

Art is power. Art is a light shining in the darkness. I could not allow myself to be infused by the standards and hypocritical norms of the world around me. As an unwed mother, my cry was my death. Arising from the pit of hell, deep inside me death. Mother’s prayer to protect their children until death. Death came and protection I had none.

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Have you even seen an art piece/peace that spoke to you, greater than all the sermons and lectures ever recorded?

the death of my children was art Never explained

my children were seen but never heard

Unwed mothers are mothers too. Childless, death was my only desire. Having children, children who I will never tuck into bed. I spent years screaming. I cried because that was the only truth I knew. My children came home in a urn rather than a car seat. I prayed for death but death never came, only despair. I replaced my cry with silence, as drugs became my foundation of making it another day alone. The lack of a child made every choice meaningless. The core of being was empty allowing darkness grow untamed. For I was no longer just a girl with streams of silent tears. I was a mother, a daughter and son crying.

Deep anguish has no interpreter.

All I had was a pen and my words; I to write so quite the darkness. Each time I wrote my words the world take them and construed into a distorted view of how they saw my personal pain. Never have I transcribed my pain to be interpreted by another soul. No, my words were my words, unedited, and unchanged. Above all else; the words were written in the English language to be defined as the Webster of the 20th Century created.

WORDS + WEBSTER = MEANING

As a result I found myself lost screaming again reliving my children’s death. Hate resonated and burned inside of me. When an angel seen my pain, she told me to “draw”. I hated her, telling me of childish things. Drawing, would save me from myself? I was dark and so were all of my drawings. I was amazed at the anger that came out of me with a mighty vengeance. She, the angel, could tell of my anger. And so I was sold and gained a little faith that art was a safe place to cry and be heard.

Eleven years has passed. For the first time I painted with the color yellow. A sunflower, with the deepest of passion. It has taken eleven years but I finished a painting. Not just any piece but the piece I started before the death of my son. I am no longer me, I am a mother, screaming with the voice of three souls. Hear my cry, the cry I put into the words so that you may understand my art. Today I write, I write for Sophia Lynn and Dalton Lane that their mother can live and cry aloud, “You are NOT ALONE!”

it was death that surrounded me, I can’t breath.

ink stained hands

Bee justice

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