Monday, March 18, 2013


Used to ball my fists
Used all my tiny strength
   Hanging, chalky spheres at my sides

Did it when I couldn't fight back
Did it in art class when a voice above me said,
   “Drawing is dumb.”

I ceased my crude cross-hatches
I ceased my paper and pencil holiday
   Obtuse classmate, spitting lies in the air

How could I precisely enter his oddly-shaped skull?
How could I precisely determine my argument?
   There were reasons, I felt them, but couldn't make them words

I still don't think there is a perfect set of things to say
I still don't think there could be for that
   Not one set, no

There have got to be more reasons than there are stars
There have got to be more purposes for paint than shades of it
   But they aren't for throwing at a frustrated 5-year-old

   They are just for your secret-self, those billions of stars.

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