Hey you.

Yes, you.

You, who feels the smarting tickle of art in your heart.

You who knows in your bones you are home and whole when you make,

you connect,

you create.

It's in your DNA to play.

The only thing you cannot make,

is make it go away-

or push it down,

or pretend it isn't there.

​

Oh, it's there.

Dripping with patience to spare,

waiting for the day you

rummage and cough,

as you shake off the dust,

take off the layers,

rub off the rust,

thrust it in the air,

Let it fall out of it's tattered box and stare

into it's battered, wild, forgiving eyes.

​

How dare it still be there.

​

This itch, this spark, this glitch,

This fidgeting, stark, creature, twitching, glinting in the half-dark;

Your passion, laid bare.

​

Rub salt in it's wounds.

Say you no longer care what others think.

Pour petrol on it.

I dare you.

Strike a match. 

Go on, light it.

Be brave, let it burn,

Come in.

Let's ignite it.

​