There is no artist in me.

No muse.

No Euterpe or Gib Singleton.

I am a blank.

A carefully constructed canvas on which others may paint.

And yet I may not.

I am denied the very right which every living thing is born with.

The right to make their own future, write their own pages and fill them with their beliefs!

Burdened.

We come into this world naked and from that very second we are burdened.

Burdened with others opinions of us, with their religions and status!

I am no artist, for someone has created me. Everyone has drawn upon me some lasting mark.

But someone marked upon them as well.

They are no more sculptor, no more painter than I.

No one is.