I remember my first art class

About 7

Or eight and I hated every second

I felt like

I was supposed to know things

Just guessing, stressing over trying to absorb the stories

Of lessons to become whatever I needed to be

There was one particular lecture where we went over Impressionism and no lie

Small confession

I vibed with the idea

But I don’t think I fully understood the concept of what was being presented

I wasn’t present

To be fair

I was wrapped up in the affairs of my head

And yea I know I said seven

But I’d be line if I said I was more than a short stroke of genius

Meaning it’s meaningless

If I can’t recreate the pieces from the picture being presented

So I did it

Practice, not being actually artistic

But getting good


Graphic with my penmanship

Penning letters and epics to lovers long since dismissive of feigned interest

Crafting stories for new friends and with friendships I’d get it

Finally, I would see the dabs and swashes of primary colors that

Dance with each other

Humanity’s other hidden skill

If the switch would kill on the ego

He could see so much clearly brought to his knees

It’s been a drill for me

I’m trying to get a skill you see

Specific will

I do see


I do see


Nature in her rawest form thoughts torn from my head would see a tree raw in form

Greens and auburn oranges more like overlapping in space

And in time

I became more accustomed to the 3D nature that came with the advancement of science and art

Into technology

And in time I would see things quite differently

I still don’t think I make a good impression but I try with the truest of effort

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