I pour them onto the page,
All my thoughts, emotions, words,
Till they blend in swirls of paint brush colors.
A blue branch in a pool of blood,
A single green corona of light
Floating in a puddle of mud,
A scatter of golden dewdrops
Splattered all over a colorless flood.
Then comes the matter
Of dissection, separation, refinement,
Of trimming the edges and cutting the losses,
Of shoving the colors into strict alignment.
Parting the sea with sodden brushes,
Viciously editing per assignment,
Until each thought, emotion, and word
Is in its own distinct confinement.
The wild, free melee
Of unabridged, uncorrected aspiration
Now lies in neat little boxes,
Each made to fit expectation.
Perfect, symmetrical rows formed
By passion disguised as synchronization.
The raw, powerful dance of colors
Forced by grammar into subjugation.
"It's nothing original,
Nothing I haven't seen before."
We aim to please, but they never cease
Comparing us to that which is no more.
"The rhyme scheme is negligible,
The ending something of a bore."
Is this crude synopsis of myself
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