The boy sits in class.
He looks as bright as yellow paint;
Wearing colors so loud, highlighters are embarrassed.
My classroom has transformed into a Rembrandt painting;
Everything is dull, but he is light.
He is the contrast great artists pray to imitate.
I watch him.
Watch as he holds the pen in his right hand so delicately,
As if it was a precious sunflower, instead of a piece of plastic.
He is as surreal as a Dali painting,
As detailed as the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling.
I am becoming as mad as Van Gogh.
How does he do it?
From his fingertips to the curve in his back,
He screams composure.
My shaking hands cannot fathom it.
You could see him running in Monet’s flowers;
You would see me in a Picasso self-portrait.
He is art.
I am a pale imitation.