For the past three weeks in school, I created my own poem during my literature class. Despite the fact that I have a teacher that is independent and tends to have his own method of teaching, I learn a lot from him. Honestly, I think that this has been the first time that I have ever learned anything in school. I've always been focused on my grades that I've never focused on pure writing. With the help of my literature teacher, I was able to create my very first authentic poem. And here it is:

The paintbrush is crowded with colors

--deranged colors.

Its once vibrant orange

Turned into a repulsive brown.

Scratched and painted on,

the pain never ceased.

Its hairs became ruined

And tainted.

Each time it is abused, scraped,

And grated against paper

Until the hair is finally

Crushed and forced apart.

Never to be returned to its original state,

Its scars permanently remain.

But the scars have subsided

And now have diminished.

Now its hairs have become smooth and soft

-- no longer flat.

Now its revolting colors

Became dull.

Now it is placed on clear display

Next to the award.

Now it awaits to be awaken once more

-- to be held in a warm and familiar hand.

The point of this poem was to describe one object that I cherished and to me, I cherished my very own paintbrush. My paintbrush is the very pride and joy that made me who I am today: an artist. And because of that, I believe that my paintbrush deserves to have a poem written after it.