In the final year, the weight was heavy,
A perfectionist’s dance, tight and steady.
OCD whispered in every stroke,
Told me to redo, never to evoke
The joy, the freedom, the art in play—
All I felt was the fear, day after day.
In AP art, I stood in the fight,
Battling the need for every line to be right.
Each brushstroke demanded precision,
My mind locked in a prison of vision.
Trying to mimic the masters I adored,
But losing myself, my spirit ignored.
Then came the moment, a quiet burst—
Not cliche, but a hunger to quench the thirst
For something more than perfect and neat,
For something raw, unplanned, complete.
I closed my eyes and let it be,
No more redos—just the essence of me.
Blind to the canvas, my hands took flight,
Surrendering the need for sight.
The strokes became wild, the colors pure,
A flow unleashed, messy but sure.
The lines blurred, the shapes grew bold,
And in that chaos, I found gold.
No more mimicry, no artist to chase—
Just my own rhythm, my own pace.
The hues danced from my soul to the frame,
Vibrant, alive, and never the same.
What once was fear, now felt like grace,
As imperfection carved out space.
This was my art, my own foundation,
Built from color, flow, and imagination.
From canvas to screen, a vibrant display,
Of boldness that no fear could sway.
A funky, radiant celebration of hue,
Boundaries pushed, worlds born anew.
I no longer strive for the perfect stroke,
For in every imperfection, my truth spoke.
A dynamic burst of what I could be,
When I let go, and simply let me be free.
