Secret

I have this primal hunger
to be an artist.
I want to inhabit tall- ceilinged rooms
full of dusty light, and smelling
strongly of ideas and mysteries and turpentine.
I want to spread gooey colors
on stretched canvas, to dab and stroke
and squint my eyes,
I want to use my hands.
I want streaks of paint on my cheek and on
my jeans and in my hair,
I want to smudge charcoal with my thumb
and make something
beautiful.