i am ----'s inventive obsession.

packing up my fragments of home i have found this. it was a final project for my AP english class, the one i was almost not allowed to take due to only having 2 years of english under my belt.
i'm reciting it, hoping that ignites this sort of passion and articulation in me once more....

the brush strokes are horribly uneven,
vibrant in the jarred patterns they weave.
up close, the impression is all wrong, this impression,
should so obviously be viewed from afar:
the same distance as the witness from the scene.
reenactments make us feel connected, alive, aware.
no binary code could communicate such life and feeling,
in to images so gorgeously garbled.
the canvas might just breathe, well,
this one does.
inuman limbs a littered with metaphors,
like a picture book of the ghosts's life,
no simple cipher will decode these tales, no,
complex analysis is required.
faces, symbols, and other oddities are here,
with script littered amongst the images,
the technicolor trigger, a revolver in obnoxious hues,
spews smoke and poems out of its unloaded barrel,
covering the entire torco in its image.
only a few understand,
the gun is the only measure of regret the spirit will allow.
anything else would leave her a desert.
clay, moist and fertile,
forms ideas in adept hands,
stained red with the blood of shed imptence,
this supreme labor of love,
fingers and medium intertwine in immaculate conception,
cheekbones, lips, ocular devices come to warped life,
joyfully imperfect, unbalanced, individual.
such a beautiful face even nature could not have sculpted.
anatomy does not permit such grievous malformations.
the mother,
the father,
fall away as separate hands,
left in their wake is a monstrous face,
as perfect in its creator's adoring eyes,
as us beasts in the eyes of "GOD."
creators are largely only admirers,
who reflect their idols in a fun-house mirror.
but the impression of sound can be felt,
down to the pulmonary vein-
if the noise is affluent enough-
so perhaps the mirrors don't matter so much.
chords control the ghost,
words and tone influence emotive ideas,
and some compositions are an Owner's Guide to Life.
tear ducts flood as the record revolves,
the flavor has grown bitter,
lilting melodies slowly,
with their subtly soaring sentiments,
eventually dam the optic river.
this rollercoaster tune is supreme:
evoking floods,
evoking fires,
evoking blinding beams,
in the face of the beholder.
now crumpled in concentration.
the beholder creates her own mirror,
scribbling furiously,
rushing towards a meaning not yet grasped.
black and white are the only tones used,
but the lack of variance in color,
makes not the task of inverntion and less ingenious.
the path of words is jumbles,
littered with ambiguity and unempasized giants.
it leads somewhere, though,
and the walkedr must have patience.
a cave of the mind engulfs the poeatic road,
and the words become not phrases, but philosophies,
emotions, theories, ideas, and passionate views,
all clamoring in the air like so many bats.
the center of the cave is a point in thought:
art is love, and love is art.

i do not know if this was a product of an idle, or stimulated mind. i can't remember, but i certainly haven't been doing much of this since my mind is simply occupied.

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