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    What It Means To Be A Writer

    When my pen makes love to paper, that sound it makes
    Is a visual echo of the rhythm my soul creates

    I’m the girl with her glasses on sitting quietly at the table. I might giggle now and again, I might catch your gaze and hold it just long enough for you to know that yes, I  saw that little bit of your soul that you’ve been trying to hide behind your wall of loud, subjectively humorous banter. I won’t tell you though. I’ll come home and write something like:

    Those eyes
    They hold a depth that is rare in a world such as this
    Eyes that tell a story of love, pain, strength, so much strength.
    Shockingly beautiful.

    My lips speak, but my fingers express.
    I discovered myself between the lines of a blank page. I used to apologize for my awkward disposition when speaking my mind, my clumsy way of dropping emotions out of my mouth, until I realized that my breed must be read. Our spoken words give away little to none of what goes on inside the birthplace of our poetry. However, if you acquire the art of reading a writer…there’s no limit to what you will discover.
    Let me take a moment to introduce myself.

    My name is Hailee.
    I’m just a girl with desires that exceed vanity.
    They say that makes no sense so I plead insanity.
    I’m on a journey, learning to live with vulnerability as my theme,
    As invincibility is the song that a coward screams.
    Passion is an incurable disease.
    I’m contagious, you decide your distance.

    As writers, our tears fall silently. We cry ink and bleed lead. You might catch us smiling but overwhelming happiness, for me at least, looks something like this:

    Allow me to make permanent this moment in time.
    Take this feeling my beautiful pen,
    And etch it into the timeline of this life,
    So when the tears come I can remember that today existed,
    That today is real.

    Heartbreak and heartache are ailments. Some find local hospitals, most commonly Paperchasers, Staples or anything of the sort. Others like myself keep a first aid kit close.
    I am not a poet
    I am but a bleeding soldier,
    With nothing but a pen and paper in my first aid kit.

    I don’t know when I first fell in love with writing, but each word brought me closer to discovering myself, loving myself and sharing myself through the talent that God blessed me with. I also developed a new and growing love for humans of all mediums. I found that art is not just a means of expression, but a means of discovery and every human being has their own personal tool of expression.

    I found compassion in the coloured strokes of painters, I found understanding in rhythmic spins of dancers, I found heartbreak in the broken patterns of spoken word artists and I found empathy in the character embracing of actors.

    On that same token, I’ve found strength in the arms of mothers, I’ve found security in the footprints of grandfathers, I’ve discovered fear in those obligated to show strength and I’ve found love in the hands of those intimate with loneliness.

    To all my fellow humans/artists, I appreciate you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you bring to this manipulated canvas we call the world.

    © Hailee Ingleton
    It’s a pleasure to have Hailee write for The Artistic Collaborative, and it’s an honour to have her as part of the team as the website’s Artistic Director. Her insights into some of life’s mysteries and enigmas are as beautiful as her writing, and the whole team here wish her the very best in her PhD. You will definitely hear and see more of her in the near future as we are working together to bring more exciting content to our readers and subscribers



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