An Artists work is never completed

Your typical "I carry" essay assigned for 12th grade

After reading Tim O' Brien's novel, The Things They Carried, it got me thinking. It had me wondering the things that I carry myself. I read about Henry Dobbins, Jimmy Cross, Kiowa, and Rat Kiley. I learned to respect the things they carried, and understand that I carry much more than tangible items. I not only wondered what I carried as a teenager, but as a human being.
I come from a home where winning wasn't what defined us, or made us great. I come from a pressure-less family that accepts what our own personal best may be. Whether its best in the state, or at a competition, or to a college is questionable. However, an honest attempt has always made my parents proud. I am art, I am a dancer. I carry the weight of my own need for perfection and control. I carry the weight of my own expectations my parents did not put on me. It may seem random, why out of no where I decided to place heavy expectations on myself in contrast of my family, but I don't think so. Wouldn't anyone want to light a fire for themselves? What else would?
I carry the burden of self discipline. I spend hours on end in a windowless purple room. After spending the majority of my day in a school setting, I am left to fight off the feeling of tiredness for the rest of the night. Dancers carry this because they understand they cannot just go home and complete homework. You don't separate the life into 2 blocks, School and Dance. Dance is always there with you as you breathe. I carry the darkness. As the sun fades away I am still working in that windowless room. The walls have 3 pictures hooked on them, of three dancers. I look into their eyes each day at the barre, and see the same struggle. The girl on the left is jumping. I would say she is flying, but I know better than that. At a first glance one would think she is free. But then look again, she is still chained to the ground by gravity.
It is a harsh reality that the girl next to me is always one step ahead. I think this can be a universal feeling. I have always been told, "Chloe, don't strive for perfection. Nobody is perfect." My parents have told me this time and time again. My dance teachers remind me of this because they just want dance to be joyful, its original intention. I carry the weight of comparison. No matter how big of an accomplishment I have made, there is always someone out there that has made a bigger accomplishment. It is a fact to me. To outsiders it may seem useless to "keep trying" at something you will never fully achieve. As a dancer I have a responsibility to perfect my art, similar to any artist. An artists work is never completed. Ask any poet when a poem is completed, or when a painting is done. I can guarantee you will receive a look of confusion.
My parents couldn't care less if I was the best or worst dancer. They do not give a thought to how many trophies I receive, or what color ribbon I get at a competition. (This useless stuff ends up in landfills anyway) What always remains is the experience of art. As Martha Graham said, "Every dance is a kind of fever chart, a graph of the heart." Dance is meant to express the human experience. I carry complex human emotions as an artist, as a human. I am my own instrument. I am what I have to work with. I can't rely on pens, paint brushes, or a camera to create dance. I carry the joy of movement.

A breath

i make a conscious decision
to breathe easy everyday
to not let jon tallamy
stop me from one right i have as a 16 year old
to let my lungs taste the oxygen on a wednesday morning
when coffee wasn't good enough
i make this choice not because i have to
or need to.
i want to breathe
instead of walking around daily
sunk underwater
tasting the salt on both lips
when it dries
who else do i have to blame?

No title

my inner language is wild
the hair on my head does not listen
because where it goes
i will too
i am tied to the melody
but ill never drown in it
At a young age is it fair to breathe
in the oxygen anyway?

My inner language is sense
and i haven't been making
much of it.

My inner language is fluidity
sprinting through my veins
i feel it most when the asphalt
and my face collide
The ride was worth it
I brush myself off
And get moving once again

When you think you've got it all figured out
its all left in a faded smudge.
And idea gone wrong.

But you don't even know
how big this iceberg of mistakes is.
You cant see what's not there.
Oh, but it can see you.

It's ready to pounce
like the southern winds
of a hurricane
pressing into the shingles of time.
Collected to create the roof
you rest your head under.

When you try to make sense
of this disaster, call me.
I'll be there to remind you
where my roof is.

The Arcs Between us

the updated version for anyone who cares

Do you remember
when your square jaw
was In juxtaposition
to mine?
-- When homicide was never a crime
that jesus would commit?

I sparked the match
and inhaled the day
I swore I forgot.
I speak in hallucinations
You speak through the haze.
And since I sleep-walked
through your brain,
I feel the loss of control
taking over.

The sun permeates
through my scalp
and I hope you come and visit
my poor brain.

I hope you decide to walk
and sleep
together within
my clouded head.

And when you want to leave,
slide down my disorganized spine.
Trace the lines of where forever was charted.
I know it's just another lie,
told to entertain our thoughts
Till the snow comes again next winter.

She says everyone dies for a reason.
She says we've all
gotta experience the blues.
Remind me again:
why we are
only human?

Why do we have to sober up
when the party is finished?
Why do we have to slow down at the stop sign?
What happens
when our nerve endings in our fingertips
cant find their way to the brain fast enough?

Our actions on impulse
force the song to skip.
The light has been green
for over an hour.
And the chorus repeats
repeats
repeats
repeats.


Why were we meant to flinch?

Arcs between us

Do you remember
when your square jaw
was In juxtaposition
to mine?
-- When homicide was never a crime
that jesus would commit?
And as he passed through
from hope to sky
I spark the match
and inhale the day
I swore I forgot.

I speak in hallucinations
You speak through the haze.
And since I slept-walked
through your brain
I feel the loss of control
taking over.

The sun permeates
through my scalp
and I hope you come and visit
my poor brain.
I hope you decide to walk
and sleep
together
through my clouded head.

And when you want to leave
slide down my disorganized spine.
Trace the lines of where forever was charted.
I know its just another lie,
told to entertain our thoughts
Till the snow comes again next winter.

She says everyone dies for a reason.
She says we've all
gotta experience the blues.
Remind me again
why we are
only human?

Why do we have to sober up
when the party is finished?
Why do we have to slow down at the stop sign?
What happens
when our nerve endings in our fingertips
cant find its way to the brain fast enough,
And the world flips
and all thats left is goodyear
adrift.

Why were we meant to flinch?--
When the greatest harm
is a flag at half staff.

Chicka chicka rough draft

i know the grammar isnt too good
but other suggestions?

I have my mothers spine
stack the blocks up
insert head on top
The notches indicating
how far ive come-
instead of creating a lie to attach to it
Allowing the mistakes
to crawl inbetween the spaces
and let them nest there
dormant
but remember their existence