Andrea Smith Poet I do not know?

The Artist

MY SOUL IS PAINTED IN BLACK AND WHITE

THERE ARE NO GREYS THROUGHOUT THIS CONSTANT FIGHT 

PENS AND PAPER;  PAINTS AND CANVAS 

REMIAN BLANK UNTIL THE ART OUR MINDS DO HAND US 

RED TURNS TO PASSION, LETTERS TO WORDS

GREEN BECOMES ENVY WITH ADJECTIVES AND VERBS

IT'S NOT ALL MAGIC REASON OR RHYME

SOMETIME IT COMES DOWN TO JUST THE RIGHT TIME

BEATEN, BATTERED, TOURTURED, AND SCARED

ONLY THE ART MATTERS WITH OUR HEARTS MARRD

DREAMING THE DREAMS THAT NO ONE CAN SEE 

CREATING THE THINGS THAT NEVER CAN BE

WE USE WHAT WE CAN GET BODY WOOD OR STONE

AND IF IT CAME DOWN TO IT WE'D EVEN USE THE BONE

FROM ONE MIND TO THE NEXT WE ALL ARE IN TUNE

SLOWLY BECOMING EXTINCT WE ALL SENSE OUR DOOM 

FINDING INSPERATION IN THE DARKEST OF PLACES

USING EVEN MOST OF DEFORMED OF FACES

IN FRAGILE MINDS CHAOS AND ORDER

WE SEE THE SKIES WITHOUT A BORDER

WITHOUT THE EARS NO ONE WOULD BE HEARD

AND WITHOUT THE ARTIST TOUCH LIFE BECOMES ABSURD

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Barbara Ward January 17, 2012 at 5:57 AM this poem decribes my life. thank you.