Like a work of art, it starts with a paintbrush and ends with perfection. A reflection of a person’s thoughts stroked between the colors of life, resembles the words combined to paint the lyrical mind, the feelings confined. Meant to touch the viewer inside and inspire a drive that leads to expression. Whether it be by colors or words, it’s a way to release their world’s confessions. Between the outlines of the darkened oils or the ink blots of the pen are the secrets of their souls, the burdens they hold, and the memories that unfold.

It’s the struggles within that forces the flow and vents out the pain, needed to gain a peaceful mind and the feeling of knowing that this is for real. They bleed out on canvas or paper, proving that they can be healed. It’s a scar they place on themselves to look back on the lesson learned, the miles earned to brighter colors; kisses of pastel pinks smudged together with yellow smiles. Those are what they hope for. That one day they’ll blend together in masterpiece. That in their dirty abstract mind is a more defined, blissful image.

So they paint of their tragedies through time, aching to make it worthwhile. That someone will see it, connect it and feel it. Make it their own, understand its role, let it console and even aid in their growth, and if neither of those then just the pure pleasure of seeing such truth. Not just the blacks and the blues. Sometimes the pages wage with light. Bright hues, dark shades, change with time. And when all is splattered and spilled, what dries is life. It seeps through the pencil linings and gloomy Picasso coats, screaming hope.