I closed my eyes as the crowded room spun with couples.
Skirts flaring, heels tapping to the live band, flashing gold.
In front of the red rose on the wall,
That spoke so many things to me.
And whispered what I couldn't say myself.
But then, as I opened my eyes, the kind old man took my hand.
His wrinkles creased with his sweet smile.
As I danced tensely he let me go.
He let me in on a secret:
"Remember, women have it in the heart.
You can't fear what's inside of you when you're dancing,"
He said knowingly.
Meanwhile, the swing band played a soft tune.
And even though I was lost,
The dancers kept on dancing,
And the couples kept on spinning.
At school I sit down in the noisy cafeteria.
Loud bits and pieces spoken into the air reach my ears.
The conversations around me run together,
Like a wet coffee stain across a poem,
Smushing ink and thoughts together.
I walk across the room, past the long lunch tables.
The large clock above my head.
The teachers in the corners pretending
they don't hear the profanities from every part of the room.
As they remember what it's like to be seventeen.
Later, alone in my room, I remember the things people told me.
That I was a scholar girl.
Not to waste my mind on art.
Or the artist,
who told me to pave my own way.
So that I could still paint and hope that you could somewhat understand.
But you didn't understand.
Like telling someone you love them when they don't see you at all.
So I took a picture of me.
"If I took a picture would you see me?" I wrote.
"Somehow, I don't think so..."
I showed the picture to my art teacher.
"I would hope so," she laughed.
Because she didn't understand.
She didn't see at all.
My emotions clumsily fell and tumbled out of my lap onto the floor.
My observant friend replied:
"Good artists starve for emotion."
And my emotions are flowing out, like milk splattered from a glass.
But I don't paint them as good artists do.
I didn't think anyone would see.
See my emotions as I do, as ink from the pen.
But no matter what I drew it never came out right.
I couldn't make you see what I saw deep inside.
And I'm not the only one,
Because the students laughed at the poetry,
laughed at the art.
But I didn't understand.
How can it be bad?
What kind of rubric can you use to judge expression?
Because I don't know where they found it.
And I wouldn't use it if I could.
So I paint myself freely.
I paint my emotions for you to see.
To understand the real things real people told me.
