Welcome back to another crap poem.
I thought it’s about time I wrote a poem that addressed how difficult it is to be a creative with physical and mental limitations.
Getting your foot in the door, getting noticed, getting heard, being seen, are all impossible when you have a mental or physical challenge that makes life harder.
In this world we are hearing all the time that companies are doing ‘all they can’ to allow marginalised groups equal opportuinities. For the disabled community this is still rarely the case, and I know we aren’t the only group of people hearing these words but seeing little action.
This poem is a little attempt to show how difficult I’m finding all this.
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Chronically Artistic
Can I be an artist?
Can I now create?
Can I somehow now ignore
this deafening self hate?
Did I feel a tiny spark?
Should I make a draft?
Or will I end with more results
to turn this idea daft?
Can I make this any good?
Should I buy a book?
How many pages will I turn?
Will confidence stay shook?
Today I won’t make anything
Why am I in pain?
Why is my creative spark
now circling the drain?
But tomorrow might feel hopeful
Will new days be better?
Will new words feel they’re worthy?
Or will I loathe each letter?
Why must limitations
make art the longest shot?
Why is there a scrap heap,
where chronic artists rot?
I wish to feel accomplished
Can I gain some praise?
Will my foot miss every door?
How many sleepless days?
What will it take to feel the same
as someone who has pride?
To accept my work is just as good?
Stop thinking quips so snide?
Despite this futile mood I’m in
I know I’ll try once more
My limitations shouldn’t mean
My creations are ignored
Where will someone truly give
my broken art a break?
Will they heal my wounded brush?
To see beneath my shakes.
Despite some change I know deep down
I’m disabled at first glance.
Unstable mind is noticed next.
My creations stand no chance.
Art should never feel closed in
so why don’t we feel free
to be an artist rather than
a chronic art rookie?
Even if I always stay
An artist from my bed
I know I have to try to be
seen more, to get ahead.
Look past the pills and injections
Don’t see the chair or crutches.
We only want our ideas judged.
We won’t hold any grudges.
Explaining labels takes some time
I think I’ll save my breath
I’m not an artist, not yet at least.
For now I’ll just be Steph.
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Thanks for reading 💜
Creative Steph 