I have an illicit relationship with art.
Ever since I was young I have been drawn to and seduced by it,
time and time again.
For so long I fell into the hands of beauty and surrounded
myself in its midst.
With this came a deafening draw back;
on my journey to envelop myself in beauty
I crucified any work of art
that didn’t fill this personification of perfection.
Now I have discovered an amazing gift, buried inside me,
a captive of my ignorance.
Worlds of opportunities present themselves as I
turn the key to each new door.
My senses go crazy:
I hear the pounding feet,
feel the heat,
smell the gunpowder,
taste sweet victory,
and envision the future.
I’ve evolved from a speck of sand into a mountain,
a raindrop into an ocean,
a hermit into a king.
Now I can examine deeper then the superficial beauty that
blinded me from true exquisiteness.
I discovered my aptitude for interpreting surreptitious
meanings implanted in art from all across the ages.
Dieu Merci, I have finally escaped my naiveté,
and now have a new idolatry for art.
My world has expanded from illicit relationships
with entrancing art,
to adulterous experiences with the anecdote
behind every work of art.
I am now moving, a stream of words shooting forth.
I am wind, rustling the leaves of expression.
I am a spider, spinning a web of words and images.
I am a fire, burning passionately with new ideas.
I am abstract a mix of bright colors.
I am a magician, conjuring something into being where
there was nothing before.
I am a harlot for art.
