Demetrisha Barnes

Demetrisha Barnes Poems

The Best Poem Of Demetrisha Barnes

Art Is

Art is
At best, it is
an illusion created
by those imprisoned by
constant changes to a reality
devoid of stability and grandeur
explicitly displayed in public but still
forgotten by political forms of rage that remain
godlike, multi-dimensional in every way imaginable
hovering over and occupying space once appropriated to those with
intellect, the silver-spooned, and the offspring of kings and queens eternal
jolting from their arms, the embracing of changing spatial patterns
knitted by impossible enclosures and colors that remain unnamed intentionally
limited by none; it conveys a feeling of desire for something beyond the self and the here
multiple illusions boggle the mind, suicide is always an option, sometimes the only one
nothing to hold back, nothing to run to, nothing to sing about, the creator is
openly encouraged to forget the past and drift into a fantasy so
persuasive the observer longs to journey into it
quivering when our own values leap away
rambunctiously we crawl into an interior undefined
saddened by what we know
time allows us to create
undistinguishable arrays of beauty not yet displayed
vehemently seeking to be free
we take hold of our eternity, our thoughts, moods, and
x-rated attitudes we try to camouflage
yelling often, we swing high and low and high again
zigging off course only to be abandoned mid-stroke.

The mystery of the unknown pains the eye
and one is forced to befriend
the opus before saying good-bye
to what
Art is.

Art
At best, it is
an illusion created
by those imprisoned by
constant changes to reality.

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