I watched her become numb.
I watched as nothing reached
past the fog surrounding her mind.

The constant disconnect between her and everything around her scared me.
When she stopped smiling with her eyes, it scared me.
When she became unrecognizable, it scared me.

Her death was a surprise to no one.
But it was a relief to some.
She had been a bright light in so many lives.
Her radiance and color were unlike anyone else.
Watching it dull into gray fog made us feel
like the whole world was losing color.

The funeral was as solemn as her last few months had been.
Not everyone had seen her descent into dullness.
Her dementia-muddled mind was uninterested
in the friends and family who did come to see her.

She lived as a dear friend to me and many others,
but she died a stranger to all. May she rest in color,
and may the people she left behind always remember
her vibrant life.

Make peace with the past or it will consume you.
Like a tiger gnawing on bones, the days of our
ancestors will consume those who cannot lay them
to rest. A one-sided story is a lie of omission.
Happy endings exist on the last page of a book.
They do not expand into reality like an owl
spreading its silent wings. The owl’s life ends
after a new owl’s life begins. There is no true ending.

This is the truth. Make peace with it and find your
future in the past. Time is not a start nor an end.
It is millions of concentric circles that overlap
and repeat in a never-ending artwork. Whether
there is meaning in the artist’s intention is of no
consequence. There is meaning found in every
overlapping line. Meaning can be found at every
point where two circles connect. Without these
interacting shapes, the world would lose purpose.

Oil on canvas can show reality,
but truth will not be found in a realistic painting.
No, truth hides in expressions of
pain, fear, love, awe, and even hatred.
Such strong feelings rapture the viewer and rupture their heart.
Only feeling can convey truth.
To be creative is not to create. It is to feel.
Creativity is not a desire, it is a command
to represent what you feel in what you make.

Successful artists are rarely happy.
The depth of emotion necessary to create
riveting artwork is not often found in joy.
Creating truth requires shadow. It requires darkness.
It requires exploration into the deep and murky waters of the mind.
You do not reach mastery of art until you have achieved mastery of the self.
Success is not fame. Success is reaching and
recreating such truth, such beauty, and such pain
that you have depicted reality in its rawest form.

There is this feeling I’ve never felt.
Given one less card when cards were dealt.
A constant gambling poker game,
Not for money, nor for fame.
This **** was rigged at the start.
The lost feeling was love, joy in my heart.
It’s taught by some mothers but never mine.
I pity the souls who were raised in kind.
I love others; don’t be mistaken.
But it feels like love for myself was taken,
Away by my mother, or maybe God.
Either way, I think it’s rather odd.
The way I was treated. The way I was raised.
The way that, despite that, my mother was praised.
My dad, he’s alright, but I think he should
Stand up for himself, for his own good.
It’s not my fault, but I’m given credit,
For my parents’ emotional deficit.
Regardless of where my poker game started.
I hope I can win, when I’m departed.

Art is a lesson for both its creator and those who admire it.
With every soft brushstroke, carefully selected synonym,
or drawn out note, the artist learns a new way to create,
a new way to evoke emotion from others by ripping it
straight out of their own chest. An artist can do this with
a graceful combination of ease and effort. Those who see
the canvas, read the pages, or listen to the melody, are only
able to grasp the pieces of the pain that are reflected within
their own souls. Inside, we are all fragments of the same
shattered mirror. Its glass once reflected only the face of God,
but now it reflects parts of us. Does it still show God’s visage?

Are we God’s art? Were we a lesson for the all-knowing? Does
even our creator learn from our mistakes, flaws, imperfections?

I’d like to apologize.
Not to you though.
No, I’d like to apologize to myself.
I’m sorry for never being strong enough
to express myself fully or honestly.
I’m sorry for never being brave enough
to stand up to you.
I’m sorry for letting myself suffer
for your comfort for all these years.
I’m sorry for letting you control
my thoughts and actions this whole **** time.
I’m sorry for thinking that I was the perpetrator
instead of the victim.
I’m sorry for thinking I had done anything wrong.
I’m sorry for continuously letting you use me
as a tool to hurt myself.
And above all else.
I’m sorry that it took me twenty years to fully realize
that I don’t owe you a **** thing.

Red is for roses,
Or so they say.
But roses are green too,
At the end of the day.

Why focus on flowers,
Temporary, fragile?
When instead there are thorns,
Durable, agile.

Think about it really,
What is red giving?
For green is still lovely,
Lively and living!

Green holds pine needles,
Oak leaves, and ferns.
Red holds hot fire,
All that does is burns!

Why flare up in moments?
Why flare up at all?
When you can be a constant,
Like a bright green moss wall.

Ever growing, ever changing,
But never erased.
Doesn’t that sound much better
Than a love laid to waste?

It soaks in the power
And warmth from above.
Yes, green is ideal.
The true color of love.