Painting a picture with words.

Entering my room, I close the door.
Shutting off the lights, I sit on the floor.

Using not but my mind, I begin to paint.
Stroke after stroke, it begins to take shape.

Gently, swiftly, vigorous and calm.
All of these methods were used.

Dabbing my brush into my wits,
Allowing my emotions to fall upon the page.

As morning draws nearer,
The picture is complete.

I turn on the lights to see what I've done,
Though it was all in vain; the picture was horrible.

Art was never my forte,
I could always write better than sketch.

So I crush the paper in my hands,
And throw it behind me into the trash.

I knock over my paints, brushes and pads,
Real artists use words instead of pictures.

I released my mind to become clear,
And begin writing my own picture.

Word after word, it grows into my liking.
Before I knew it, the picture was striking.

Masking the shapes and sizes of objects,
My pen wrote words which I was not capable of.

I dared not use this as art in my class,
For my teacher would fail me without second thought.

I stared and I stared at the paper,
Scanning the words and the picture took shape.

The more I read, the more beautiful it was.
I wrote pictures and did the impossible.

The next day, I went to school.
Walked into art class and sat on the stool.

"The paintings are due today." said the teacher.
"I'm collecting them. Hand them in or it's zero!"

Sweat dripped down my head, as I thought of the face.
The face that he'd make when he sees my discrace.

Would he see the art that I saw?
Would he understand that words can draw?

Closer and closer, the teacher came.
Until I had felt his stare on my page.

"Where is your work?" asked the teacher.
"I guess it's a zero for you little, Michael."

"But sir..." I protested. "This is art enough.
Words can shape pictures better than a brush."

The class laughed at my words, and I grit my teeth.
"Now let me read this art of yours." said the teacher.

As he read, his eyes grew wide.
And the class began to subside.

"This is amazing." said the teacher.
"I've never seen such beautiful art in my life."

When I got home, I smiled to myself.
Knowing that I've done the impossible.

"I've painted a picture using words.
One that has won me the best grade in class."

My hopes were high, and morales were flying.
There was nothing that could stop my art.

Three years later, I was in university.
I stepped into the classroom, and dropped my jaw.

Beautiful art surrounded me, pictures, photos, paintings.
I felt so insignifigant at that moment.

I sat down and got my first assignment.
"You must paint a picture, nothing else."

Paint a picture? I can't paint. I can write.
What was I to do?

I got home and ran to my room.
Shut the door and sat on the floor.

I released my mind to become clear,
And begin writing my own picture.

Word after word, it grows into my liking.
Before I knew it, the picture was striking.

Masking the shapes and sizes of objects,
My pen wrote words which I was not capable of.

I read the words on my page,
And the pictures again started to take shape.

I smirked to myself, confident in my work.
"This will please him." I said. "It is my pride!"

I went to school the very next day,
And sat in the classroom the very same way.

The professor walked about, nodding at students.
Until he came upon me, where he stopped.

"Where is your work?" asked the professor.
"I guess it's a zero for you little, Michael."

Little Michael? Zero? But my other teacher was pleased.
He will have to be pleased as well, this is my art!

"But sir..." I protested. "This is art enough.
Words can shape pictures better than a brush."

The class laughed, and followed by the teacher.
"You can't write art. You fail little Michael. You fail."

Totally crushed, I began to walk home.
"That was my best art... Why did he say that?"

I stepped into the highway, and held up my arms.
"If I can't write art, and than can't live!"

At that moment, I heard a truck horn.
I shut my eyes, and everything went blank.

This is the story, of my very own art.
Not with paint, but with words alone.