A dramatic pause.
Some dramatic irony.
A dramatic tone, a dramatic dress;
A dramatic thought process.
Set the dramatic setting!
Picture a place...
A place where the mountains are too tall,
The oceans are too deep,
The rivers are too long; a place
Where only dramatic blood will seep.
I am an artist, therefore I am dramatic.
I paint with vibrant colors to
Catch the eye in a most surprising way,
I clench my fist with such severity
When I preach that the knuckles
Not only turn white, but are
Purely translucent.
I will pound my fist in the air,
A mighty pound against the air molecules
That have done nothing to me
But give me life,
And I will add insult to injury
As I raise my fist higher and higher,
I will TAKE a breath,
Inhaling deeply and I will say with a jump:
"What, dad? It's called a fist bump.
It's all the rage.
You should try it sometime...
Might diminish your old age."
Like the game of chess,
I am best known for the way I may test
The cold, human mind
And the way it rests
Glory upon the heads of the best of the best.
If you're only the best of the best,
Are you better than all the rest?
You're submerged into only a handful
Of contestants at that point in time,
I am having a hard time seeing where
You could say you have skills above mine.
Because I did not try out to be a "best".
Oh, no.
I simply tried out to be a P O E T:
A person of words and of worldly flow.
Yes, I am clean!
But I have soap in my eyes,
And I can hardly see.
I cannot see the gorgeousness of the greens,
The beauty of the blues,
The raucousness of the reds...
Oh, I forgot to mention.
I'm merely color-blind,
I thought that went without being said?
Don't!
Look at me in that tone of voice.
I am not to be looked at!
Unless, of course, I'm lookin'
Pretty fly today. Then you can
Look all you want because I am not afraid
To show off every once in awhile,
To boast,
To be audacious! ...
I often wonder why I never got to a
"Ready, set, action!"
Or a
"People! places, places!"
But then I remember why;
The persons on stage?
They are only acting.
They are actors.
In that moment, they do not really feel!
They are acting, don't you see?
Simply put, artists just the same.
Only, their art is also simply feigned.
People always ask me,
"Why are you so excited?"
"Why are you so loud?"
"Why do you say things of that might?"
"Why would you ever act so proud?"
And of course the reoccurring question of,
"Who are you again?"
But that's irrelevant.
I don't know why you brought that up.
And I always answer these questions
The same way.
I am an artist. Therefore,
I am dramatic.
People rush through life without
Paying respects to the little things.
Artists are humans too,
They are no exception to this rule.
We have faults, we have flaws,
We all have things
That need to be improved.
However, an artist can rush
Through life with such grace,
That it is no longer rushing.
Somehow through the blinding speeds,
they can see.
They can see what you can't.
Rushing, rushing, rushing.
I was hurrying out of class
And down the stairs the other day.
I rounded that corner
And began to descend only to knock
A poor female down unto her
Gluteus Maximus.
The situation was intense,
But I walked right past it.
I kept going, down those stairs,
To enter the bottom hallway...
And from up above I heard a soft, sarcastic voice,
"Um, excuse you?"
I couldn't help myself.
I had to turn around.
I told her,
*"Now you're just overreacting."
Slam poetry done by my younger self.
