Free Verse

About a month ago I attended something my church does on a regular basis called Open Studio. Here artists of all types can come and practice their craft and collaborate with fellow artists. Once there I realized that I had a very hard time relating to the artistic types present--those free to express themselves through unfamiliar mediums. Someone was drumming who had never held a stick; someone was painting who had never held a brush. This concept was foreign and scary to me, but in the spirit of things I pulled out my moleskine and began to write. This liberating expression was the result.


"I'm Missing The Point"

Tat. Beat. Smash. Miss.
Crash. Tat. Beat. Nonsense.
You flail like a child. You care like a child.
What I (boom boom tat). What I think does not matter to you.
Your tempo is deviant. You skipped a beat.
I'm missing the point.

Color. Color in my mind. Color in abstract expression.
Blue, teal, brown, black. These are not art.
From your mind, out your hand, dipped in true color, you express your thoughts that words fail to represent.
Anger, fear, calm, bliss. A beautiful afternoon.
I am limited. You are free.
My words fail.

I must be right. It must be flawless.
In silent corners where no one sees--for goodness' sake they'd better not hear--there I will compose for you a symphony.
It will have major and minor. It will follow the rules. It will be right.
You will tell me I'm missing the point.

"What do you feel? How do you feel?"
Beige. Diminished. Almost there. Wide-brush.
No. Minor four. A reddish green--ugh. That's brown.
Are you sure? Is everyone equipped for this?

Oh don't read this. It's wrong. I really shouldn't have written it. Tear it out if you find it.
The best thing you could do right now is forget about it and really never bring it up because I just exposed something silly and I think I'm safer just reading a book or something.
Or composing my silent symphony. Just don't tell anyone.



Thank you for taking the time to read this.