Higher Arts

She sits there, confused, because words are her blood and numbers are not her beat.
She sits there crying inside, because she feels stupid and betrayed for not knowing the magic formula, for not knowing how the ten strange symbols clicked and interlocked.
She sits there bewildered at how these numbers interact so skillfully and yet so harshly. There is no room for imagination or fault. But there is no perfection in writing.
She sits there.
She writes.
And the numbers can march but her words, her emotion; they dance and interlock in ways that can't be printed without feeling, without though, or converted to something yet retain meaning. And she knows, even if she cannot understand the march of numbers, that she has mastered the higher art.





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hotbaby said...
May 15, 2009 at 10:46 pm
<3 Amazing,Brilliant,Beautiful and every other compliment in the world!! This is amazing!!
 
Whitney said...
May 15, 2009 at 5:05 pm
Wow. This is definitely one of my favorites. My dad is always mad because I never have good grades, I am too focused on my writing. That's all I do. Great poem, would love to read more from you.
 
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