The Child Of The Artist Poem by Tamika Robinson

My art is my soul.
I always put a piece of my heart into each one.
And when you take it from me,
You also take a piece of me with it.
As I separate,
I become more and more empty.
Each step you take with my own creations,
Creates a hole that will only get bigger.
My art is like my own child.
I only put my time, love and care into each drawing,
Each word,
Each picture,
Each story.
And yet,
It would seem as if this wouldn't make a difference to you.
As if you are deliberately separating me from the only children I have.
My art.
My life.
My heart.
My soul.
Does this mean nothing to you?
Do you not care one bit?
How would you feel if this were the other way around,
If I were taking something that you would consider your own children from you?
As you walk away,
With all I have to show of myself,
You leave me with nothing.