Winter 1993 Artful as she is, Chief of her own style. Conqueror of her own existence. Owner of art. Dictatorial in her own way. Ingenious with her speech. She masticates the world in her art. Bright colors, but she uses black. Remarkable comments, she knows. Fashionable and still clever. Acute, but still incisive. My teacher is nice. My teacher is pretty. Eye-catching because of her ways. Turbulent and triumphant. She embodies with distasteful loiter. Never regrettable, since I’ve known her. She’ll never refrain, but keep her distance. She’ll loom, not just appear. She shows her white teeth with a smile. She’ll undo that smile with a forthright second. Distinctive, a conductor. She still is incisive and still educative. Eccentric, but in her own way. I really don’t know her. She’s just my art school teacher. A mind with mistakes, a mind couldn’t be fake. A time without any control, we take not a toll. A holding of thoughts, Remembering the days, Thinking of all the minutes you’ve fought. Is this just a phase? Forever is such a long time, Eternity sounds like ‘a never stopping life’, life could be considered such crime. It all becomes the shape of a dice. How should it be? What’s the meaning? You should plant a tree. Dance and sing. Art explains all this confusion, Your mind becomes relaxed on a pace, We take life as a phase, then an illusion. …a beautiful face. Days are like moments, Creative minds build your world, Memories begin to bend. Take a look into the image of tin foil. Under all the people who control your past, You contain yourself from expression, Figure out how long this life will last, Control your aggression. You entered my life with a handshake, I looked away, give and take, ring my bell, come out and play. We kissed each other, Many are sick and can’t walk, Things are neat, just like my brother’s seat. Notebooks are kept, I try to talk. Step. Pictures of scenery, Pictures done in school, My life is gone with ease, in grammar school, you played the fool. Learn the way your family lived, Without you things would be different, sleeping in your crib. Another day of counting cents. Music is a key, Sleep becomes a source of energy, It’s not just me. I’m in a state of building history. You’re my friend, keeping in touch, letters you’ve sent, mean so much. Together we grow up, Together we see the world, We witness what’s corrupt, distorted and royal. Carry all the weight, Some day you’ll put it down, when all you believe in, is fate, sky to the ground. Stay around, your thoughts, I let them change, into what it ought to be, in such a rearrangement. I’m tired now.
Posted on: Tue, 13 Aug 2013 08:01:34 +0000
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