"'Art is either plagiarism or revolution.' - Paul Gauguin. What is your 'art'? Is it plagiarism or revolution?"

- UChicago essay prompt 2015

The words flow from my pen
onto paper,
quietly dripping like rain off a gutter,
black liquid mixing with white tree,
forming words and sentences-
But no.
I am of the digital generation.
Words do not move from me
to a point
to a surface.
My emotions enliven my fingertips,
pushing on tiny squares of black plastic
or even smaller letters on a screen,
filling a nonexistent page with too-poignant emotions.
I scratch out inklings of my thoughts,
painting a small sunrise on my computer
out of off-orange and pale pink and macaroni yellow,
and no matter how much I try,
words leap uselessly into a void
before falling into the ravine below-
But no.
I emerge with a worldview refreshed:
the colors around me a shade brighter,
the people around me a dial louder,
the music around me a beat faster.
My escape fades into the background
as I embrace daily life once more;
my mark has been left,
my spot claimed,
my flag planted-
But no.
These fledgling attempts at flight
barely leave the nest.
These chicks are far too shy to venture
much farther than a branch or two away
from their mother, and I am too
afraid, vulnerable, weak?
to let them soar very far-
But no.
Supernovas cannot help their explosion;
they cannot fight the light they emit,
and I cannot quench my desire
to throw myself at others as a rhyming couplet.
I refuse to be marginalized now.
These small pieces of my heart have wings,
and with them,
I will traverse the entire world
and claim my throne;
I will inspire those after me
to buck the system, to fight injustice, to-
But no.
My handful of disjointed metaphors
might release a pressure valve inside my brain,
but I do not know if they will release
the emergency hatches in our society.
Our universe.
I might be screaming,
howling,
clawing at a world I can never touch-
But no.
I am purposeful,
every phrase crafted with invisible hands in my brain,
molded out of a delicate marble,
etched using a protractor and a Sharpie,
solidified by the power in my syntax.
(Or so I hope.)
I do not create to destroy,
and the wind in my mouth
is not intended to fan flames,
but my words should not sit
on a shelf or on a bridge,
waiting for time to obliterate all.
I put myself forward as an offering-
take from me and my words what you will,
let it comfort you or change you,
but please, I beseech you,
do not let it collapse into a black hole.
Do not let it be meaningless, because that
you, and only you, can determine.