Art Is Nothing But Fire, Just Waiting To Be Light

I was born without the invitation of saying hello,

yet you might say I was blind from rejection.

I guess it was too hard to live a life of deception.

The abstract black skin tone that haunts me.

I feared the day of horror, yet I gave light to man.

Am I that irresistible?

I fear the day that they would look into the flames and see me dancing,

that one day they would tame me.

They say art is the thoughts of nothingness,

that was created to make something meaningful.

Yet art is the pain of the unknown desires that seek companionship,

the everlasting desires to be something on the wanted list.

Yet see my art is nothing but raw pure fire,

the molting hot lava that landscapes the curves of shapes.

See I clash against the weight of pain and hurt,

formed with these two shaking old hands;

my finger tips linger around her waist as I mold her hate.

Art is more defined when you hurl the velocity of

the fireflies as bright butterfly wings shaped as feathers.

They call me the fireworks,

breaking distressed forms of nuclear weather.

Yet when I say art is waiting to be light,

I'm describing her characteristics that can't be missed.

She's decomposes the indestructible frames,

that is incapable of blame;

yet her beauty is so elegant that it renders us in her shame.

A box of iTunes that dualistic her every move into tunes shaped as goons.

Is light mightier than the sword,

is it wiser than the words we speak of or

is it braver than the lions that go out at night to feast on us?

See light isn't the questions,

it what's we do and say that makes it our answer.

When I say art is nothing but fire,

it's base on pure desires and will to be proven something.

Am I so shameless that I can't be critique?

The flames begins to shout and begins to torment those gingerbread

houses built with toothpick waiting to devoured by mouses.

See we can make anything interesting when we combined different flows of words.

Art is flames, contained in the ball of pain.

I'll burn down all my pages,

those poems that all label me as courageous.

Flames aren't considered art until it changes it's form.

Like those cabin cherrywood logs formed into ashes,

I shaped its components and put it into a bowl filled with masses.

I pour water and chemicals, preservatives and a base;

in the end I just made a new type of paint.

The cherrywood smoldering bright ashes.