I Am The Architect.
I am an artist,
an architect of the imagination.
With broad strokes and bold designs
I choose the color,
the angle and just the right light
at which my life is
If the tones don’t suit me,
I’ll choose another.
If the temple of my life
the beauty in my mind,
I add, subtract,
I build up and tear down
until the glow can radiate
through the cracks
from the inside out.
I am an artist,
the architect of my imagination.
I alone know the blueprints
from which I work,
if there are blueprints.
The temple I erect to house
my holy life is organic,
erratic, completely unplanned,
allowing me the freedom
to add until the piece, the color, the tile,
feels just right.
I am a Winchester Mansion,
a forever work-in-progress.
I am nothing more nor nothing less
than a monument to my own existence
and the ghosts of those who came before me.
I am flawed and frayed,
cobbled together from their scraps
to create something more than I once was.
I am purposefully and accidentally built
with the intention of finding not perfection,
but a reflection of what I wish
to leave for the next soul
when I’m gone.
My life is a work of art,
and architectural miracle!
Some walls may fail to hold,
yet the patterns formed
when they fall is worthy of a frame.
Paint runs together
creating swirls and eddies of color.
Some are muddy,
some almost neon in their brilliance,
But all are mine – so much me.
This body that refuses
to follow the rules and plans in my head
knows itself better than my vision.
So I adjust accordingly,
to once more find the cathedral
among the rubble.
This body may not appear perfect,
unblemished, unbroken, unbound,
but if you step twice back
and to the left when the sun rises
and the clouds are just right,
you’ll see it as I do;
a work of art.
A church worthy of worshiping
the grand beauty of that which is life,
both mine and all other.
This form is a carnival,
a funhouse, a madhouse
and everything in between!
It holds cemeteries of lost dreams
and birthing huts filled with the new.
It encompasses the thoughts
too big to describe in words
and the fears too wild to be trapped,
Like mustangs breaking free
from their pens.
In every cell,
of every part,
I hold the universe
in all its awe-inducing glory!
Mine may not be the painting
you choose to hang on your wall,
or place on your shelf,
and for that very reason,
my soul continues to sing.
Because art is subjective – reflective,
And mine must live
For it wishes to remain alive,
Not withering under the dust
and shadows of a static existence.
On those days
when it’s hard to see the beauty in my life,
I must remind myself to remember —
I’m not looking
with the right set of eyes.
Because I am an artist
and an architect of my imagination
and I alone choose when and where
My work is done.
Chris Dean writes at pixie.c.d., where she shares acts of stupidity, life with adult offspring, and advocates for chronic illness and mental health awareness. Her work has appeared on Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, In The Powder Room, Bonbon Break, Midlife Boulevard, The Mid and as a contributing author to Clash of the Couples and It’s Really 10 Months: Special Delivery (coming Labor Day 2015).