drawing is a beautiful art
except for when I try it
the graphite doesn't form anything of decency
much less beauty
but one thing I can get
are the eyes
it's really quite a shame
that someone who hardly draws
can draw such amazing eyes
a huge waste in fact
I started drawing when I was nine years old
I drew a picture of a cigarette holding my dad
I drew my friend Jimmy with his third nipple
I drew a picture of this kid Randall who had two nipples but no friends
When I was eleven I drew a comic
of this girl Michelle
stopping crime just by being pretty
she giggled in a bad way at me
but when her friends weren't looking
she squeezed my hand
and I drew a ten pictures of hands that day
I wanted to draw it so you could tell the person with the hand was smiling
without giving myself away
when I was thirteen I drew four hospital beds
and I drew each of my family members in one
and then I drew their coffins as statues
When I was sixteen
I drew Chicago
in the shape of a dollar bill
I drew love as a CD in a locked freezer
I drew God as a people-colored crayon
and Earth was the paper
when I was sixteen
I drew my nine year old self with
God in a coffin
buried with a crayon
like people are buried with crosses
When I was younger,
I wanted to be an artist.
I aspired to be someone
who made a difference,
Picaso or Vincent Van Gogh.
Someone who was remembered.
So like every little kid who has a dream,
I pursued it.
Saving up all the allowence I earned
In just 3 weeks
I had a total of $12.80.
Enough to fund the dream of a child.
I loved drawing.
From the minute I picked up my
I knew my dream was going to come true;
Even if it started with doodles...
of flowers and stick people.
So eventually I grew up and I gave up that dream
of being an artist that makes a difference.
I gave up,
because I couldn't master drawing the perfect person.
I couldn't draw
how the persons eyes shinned when they saw the love of their life,
I couldn't capture
the beauty in the young girls smile
as she ran through the field of daisys towards her father,
who was coming home from war.
I realized that you can't capture the beauty and the memories
that someone holds
with a dream and a $2.50 pencil.
Of recent stories, i’m told our moon was the largest. i denied fact as truth, as is so often used. i wrote a report filled with errors only a universe could make and killed time for old time’s sake.
but the buried limousines have somehow grown into trees where crows drink wine, and talk of future times where their only worry will be which way to glide to empty their minds.
but talking to the doctor today, he was convinced of impeding biological holocaust - where bodies pile up as your vision is lost - and all along you were the fastest crook, spending money like time, and quicker than you took it.
my vagrancy knows of great discord, the kind my mind mutates into a reward but the last vision of a dead knights sword is the exterior of the universe after all our inner wars.
vapors collide in one last goodbye of both our love and time. i breathe your lips for one last eclipse and forget all the reasons why. we’ll meet again, on the run - towards the sun, but not with everyone.
my mind goes blank
with every breath of mine
that you take
I am sitting on the curb of no where..
Adults told me never hang around.
I am on the edge of meditation.
I am viewing the scenery of my fate.
I can't see the sky from the trash.
The metal-cans beating up the wind.
Oh the strains living up to impossible.
My torment shining in a dirty puddle.
This shouldn't be the price of dreams.
I see the reflection of a spectacle.
The mud needed a place to express itself.
The world needed someone to laugh at.
I hear their engines exploding with humor.
Two drawings are decaying in my lap.
This spaniel is a Blondie snarling into temper.
I bet you are glad she is just on paper.
The lion is so inviting like Samson.
Shave his beard for fun and
forget my self-esteem in question.
Paper attempts to protect him from abuse.
My dreams lost in the attic of my mind.
My dreams will be discovered someday
When I am not looking for them.
Dazed yet frantic.
My utensil scratched
and shaded and
The outside world
to my ears and eyes.
Only the white and lead
colored my mind.
When finally the lead ceased
to run along the page
“What are you writing?”
“I thought I was drawing shapes?”
have you seen a drawing,
bold, that hits your heart,
licks and smudges
make the picture
of a man.
yet look sideways, it may
be you, or her, each day
there is something different
in the mirror.
each way, drawing you in.
it is framed. as are you now.
there is no photograph.