The Artist

Graphite stains my fingertips,
As once again,
I return to it.
The same place I always go,
Whenever my hopes get a little low.

I put the pencil to the paper,
Lets take things slow.
No more than an hour,
But I already know.
In a week's time,
I will be left behind.
And what moves on is a different me: the artistic side.

I find comfort in knowing,
It has returned.
My form of expression,
The one I have learned.

It keeps me up all night,
I stay occupied during the day.
People start to ask themselves-
"Is she okay?"
With fingertips black,
Clothes covered in paint.
She tells them "I'm an artist"
Then whispers to herself,
"Don't you know? I'm never okay."

Some days it makes me happy,
More joyful than ever.
But I know,
Eventually,
I will slip.
I will return to that dark place.

I am an artist,
Will I ever truly be okay?