her drawings and paintings weren't artistic enough. her poetry, not poetic enough. her singing, not soulful enough. but each time she took a brush to paper, or typed on her computer, or sang in her little car, she felt something. for everything she did in her daily life, she felt, was art. and an artist is never pleased, in much the same way that she wasn't pleased with her life. but she reminded herself that each thing she did flowed into the next, imperfections to perfections and back again. and that, truly, was art.
YOU ARE READING
Gypsy
Poetrya poetry collection "Gypsy souls aren't meant to stay in one place; they're meant to wander. I got tired, bored, and depressed in the place that I was at. Change was the only option. So I packed up my soul in a suitcase and left."
