Michelangelo's Paint Brush

Free. Flowing, yet detailed.
The concentration of a genius.
I am held with utter skill,
and twirled about in moments of pause.

He already knows what to do
before I am even summoned.
I await his every call,
quivering with anticipation.

The potential is there,
on any given day
that a masterpiece will form,
impossible without me.

I caress the canvas,
marking a revolution,
the painting will be timeless,
the essence of imagination captured.

He rinses me off,
What color will come next?
Taking a deep breath,
he yells, vexed.

He sets me down,
he needs a break,
But I have faith;
expectantly, I wait.

Each color is only a memory.
The water that cleanses me
releases me their emotion,
while etching it in time.

The bliss of creating timelessness!
Like a fountain of youth,
I physically animate each painting
appearing in homes of the couth.

He understands beauty,
yet somehow resists me.
He prefers a chisel!
But what of the Sistine?

I am to him but a tool,
a genius's tool.
But at least I rest happy,
for I made art cool.

This is what I will show to my english teacher, Heather Yanda, and hope to gain extra credit from. I'm assuming she gives out extra credit regardless of whether it sucks or not. If not, I probably won't be getting points. So yes, my poetry sucks, but on the bright side, she'll only think I'm improving from here on out.