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 crave soft touches and gentle words.
Reassuring hands holding mine in the
darkness of this world. Sweet humanity
cradling my soul as I no longer fear for
the present. I wish for tender care given
by rough hands, silky hands, and every
hand in between. Love isn’t shown in
bravery or strength. It is shown in kind-
ness and compassion. Love is as bright
and soft as a full moon on a starry night.

Let your true colors shine brightly
as you wear them with pride.
Spread your colors across yourself,
your surroundings, your life!
Let your personality be itself,
regardless of the words of others
or the criticism of those who don’t
love you! You should love you!
In every messy stage, in every
dull moment, and in every bold move,
love yourself! For you are a painting,
my love! As both art and artist,
become your own creation. We are here
to admire the beautiful masterpiece
that the artist intended along with every
glorious mistake and mishap
that made its way into the final piece!
You are a painting, my love.
Create yourself.

Strength is not a raging river or a roaring tiger.
Strength is bravery in small, significant things.
Even the smallest things can be significant.
Importance is not decided by money or popularity.
It is chosen by value, meaning, and purpose.
We are not brought into this world only to consume.
We are given the strength to create and choose.
Choose strength every time you are given a choice.
The hardest decisions are the most important, and
Great heights are best seen from your lowest point.

I may never forget how I lost him.

Though the details are muddied
By tears and dreams.

I will never forget the look in his eye
As she ripped him apart with ease.

After all this time, I still don’t know
how
she
did
it

When the line of one idea ends,
does the line divert into new ideas?
From one idea, do a couple, a few,
or several more split into existence?
Does one idea grow into new ideas
like a flower stem dividing into
several stems, letting more blossoms
bloom into beauty and brilliance?

When a circle of an idea starts,
does it overlap with past circles?
Do the overlapping colors and
textures create something new?
When the spark of a new idea is lit,
does it create a flame of creation and
craft that ignites, burning up projects,
releasing plumes of chaos in its wake?

Does your geometry have enough poetry?

It feels like you’re too close to me.
You push everyone else away from me.
They try to move closer,
But you shove yourself between them and I.
Cramped into the space of one person,
We push against each other constantly.
You push me down, smaller. I push back.
Tightly confined, I’m trapped with you, by you.

Painted on her face
is the longing for something
she can’t even fathom.
Its brushstrokes grace her brows
as a sorrowful cluster
of wrinkles cover her forehead.
Carefully colored eyes
show the depth of underwater trenches.
A palette knife covered her jaw with tightness.
She craves safety, security, and softness.
She was so carefully crafted
by those who deprived her
of tender touches and love.

It spreads through her like the cancer in her bones.
It takes her strength, but supports her weakness.
She tries to **** it with therapies and medicine,
but it grew back stronger every time. It is her.
A part of her she couldn’t cut out or off.
It is killing her and hurting those around her.

It started with one. A small hole from a nail.
The first on the surface, paint color “Light Hail.”
The next was an accident. A **** with no stop.
They patched it well and carefully covered it up.
Over the years, nails, screws, and anchors,
With shelves, paintings and furniture.
One time, their son poked through with a pencil,
But it did little compared to his teenage knuckles.

I would describe this feeling as pain,
but it doesn’t quite hurt like being burned.
And it doesn’t feel like being completely incinerated either.
No, it’s a dull ache. A deep feeling of loss.
Even my body doesn’t know how to process it.
Not that my body knows how to process most things.
My stomach is bad at digesting dairy and anger .
My ears don’t interpret conversations very well,
And my tongue can’t stand spice.
Spice burns. A pain I can identify, but can’t tolerate.
Heartbreak aches like a black hole. Cold. Empty.
What was once a burning star has been changed,
Rendered into an all-consuming, lifeless nothing.

Loud head. Silent mouth.
Loud thoughts. Empty words.
Loud pain.
Screaming, deafening pain.
Numbness.

A candle sputters, releasing the scent
of cinnamon and apples. Inspiration ignites
within the poet’s mind, like a lit flare.

Passion cooks within her, simmering ideas
like stir fry. Joy sparks from her fingertips
as she types. Her digits blaze across
the keyboard in fiery bursts. Her words
flow out of her like wildfire, consuming
the empty page. A pyre of text appears
on the screen. She fiercely feeds the flame.

Poetry and prose emerge like a phoenix
from the ashes. The warm glow of contentment
surrounds her as she admires her work.

The fires of creation are burning through her.

I’ll tell you a story, one you’ve forgotten.
About an apple tree with roots that are rotten.
This tree made apples, deformed, not round.
Spoiled and smelling, they fell to the ground.
Near to the tree, they seemed far from useful.
No creature would eat them to make themselves full.
But these apple seeds were untouched, unspoiled.
By removing the rot, in water that boiled,
The farmer could purify these seeds,
Use them for his needs,
Even though they were rotten.
Don’t let this story be forgotten.

I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the many people I have lost,
but for those I have never had to begin with.
My mother is somehow on both lists,
though I’m sure she doesn’t think so.
My father’s name sits next to hers on the list,
As he always sits next to her. By her side,
And on her side every time, every day.
My grandmother was on the first list
until the day she revealed her soul to me.
Her heart had wrinkles and scars more
gruesome than her youthful smile could hide.

I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the mistakes I’ve made,
But for the memories I didn’t.
My childhood sits at the top of the list,
A foggy blur of grey and white.
My mother’s genuine smile is beside it,
A beautiful sight I think I’ll never see.
My birthdays are each lined up neatly,
Each one a day set aside just for me.
The last thing on the list is scratched out.
Someone I swear I knew once, but don’t
Remember even the song of their name.

Whisk me away, my love.
To lands of enchantment,
With streams of milk and honey
Flowing past trees as tall as castles.
This lifeless place is nothing like
the realms I wish to visit with you.
I am in need of saving,
Like a damsel in a high tower,
I am trapped in a dull world.

Oh, whisk me away, my love.
To a cottage in the woods,
And let me sew in a rocking chair
While you carve me a small trinket.
As we sit by the fire together,
I will think about the place I am now.
I am in need of saving,
Like a grandmother stumbling.
I am unsteady on my feet.

Please, whisk me away, my love.
To safety and comfort.
A quiet apartment is all I ask,
With warm tea and warmer hugs.
Watch the sunrise with me,
As we watch TV with the dog.
No longer in need of saving,
Like a feral cat with a forever home.
No longer scared for tomorrow.

My dear one,

May you walk new paths optimistically when you are the Fool.
May you create your universe when you draw the Magician.
May you trust your intuition when you draw the High Priestess.
May you be grounded in family when you draw the Empress.
May you lead with authority when you draw the Emperor.
May you listen and learn when you draw the Hierophant.
May you open your heart to love when you draw the Lovers.
May you speed towards success when you draw the Chariot.
May you see the power you contain when you draw Strength.
May you sit back and reflect when you draw the Hermit.
May you recognize your karmic cycles when you draw the Wheel.
May you balance truth with wisdom when you draw Justice.
May you surrender yourself when you draw the Hanged Man.
May you transition smoothly when you draw Death and Rebirth.
May you balance your energies when you draw Temperance.
May you face your inner demons when you draw the Devil.
May you see the truth clearly when you draw the Tower.
May you wish for a better tomorrow when you draw the Star.
May you see into the depths of yourself when you draw the Moon.
May you ignite with joy and inspiration when you draw the Sun.
May you truly know your motivations when you draw Judgement.
May you be spiritually reborn when you reach the World.

Beginning are opportunities
For failure.
And flight.
Endings are opportunities
For darkness.
And light.
But you are an opportunity
To set my
heart alight

Beat me down, break my skin.
Like a glowstick, the party begins.
After I’m broken, bruised, and bleeding.
Celebration starts as I’m on the floor, reeling.
Rolling on the floor with laughter and pain,
I join the party, still ****** and maimed.
Together, we laugh. Alone I cry.
No one sees this pain of mine.
But I find it okay.
Even better this way.
Don’t let them see it.
But let them do it.
Let them hurt me over and over and over again.
Let them hurt me, these monsters, my friends.
They beat me up; they broke what didn’t bend.
And like a used up glowstick, the party, it ends.

Why do I growl when I'm upset?
Grrr I want to hold you
Grrr I need your touch
Grrr please help me
Maybe I growl because the only part of me that is allowed to feel pain is the Beast.
Maybe the Beast lurks behind my tongue,
wanting to scream, but only able to scare.
I pity this Beast. It does not bite, and it cannot bark.
Its sole connection to the world is a defensive, angry, growl.

It wrapped her head,
covering her auburn hair
in golden yellows and bright blues.

When the wind stole it away,
I raced after it,
hoping to catch up to the breeze.

The red and orange leaves
traced its path as it flew
through the brisk autumn air.

My fingers barely brushed
the fabric, but the current
brought it to the branches overhead.

The air carried it to
a high bough above our heads,
hanging it on a branch with care.

There it hung, beside
the glimmering yellow leaves of
the tree, swaying like one of them.

I reached towards the sky
to retrieve it before the breeze
could lift it away once more.

She caught up with me then,
laughing at our attempts
to rescue her bright yellow scarf.

Looking up at the thin piece of fabric,
I offered to climb the tree
though I didn’t want to.

Her infectious giggles at the
proposed idea graced my ears
like a soft, sweet song.

That music lulled my once-lonely mind
into sleepy peace and serenity
for the rest of my days.

A wise man has told me things that aren’t true.
A child has told me the secrets of the universe.

Knowledge is not limited to those with privilege and power.
Knowledge is often used to right the wrongs of those in control.
Knowledge is a tool that empowers the wielder with strength.

When wielded for good,
knowledge can be a pen to create.
When wielded for good,
knowledge can be a sword to protect.

When wielded by evil,
knowledge becomes a concealing blindfold.
When wielded by evil,
knowledge becomes a restricting rope.

Knowledge can create and protect freedom, joy, and even life.
Knowledge can be used to conceal and restrict the same things.

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.

My shoulders are burdened
by the weight of all the lives I'm living.
My head hurts because my neck
supports all the people I’ve become.
Laden with hats, my hair hides
underneath the tokens of every job I do.
Deep within, I still fear that this is not enough.
Will it ever be enough?

Righting our parents’ wrongs is very hard,
And fixing broken minds can be even harder.
Maybe we should try harder to fix our behavior.
Cause our behavior can harm more than it helps.
Our impact is always affected by our intent,
And we must always try to be kind.

Where does art come from?
It comes from pain for some.
Others find it in joy or glee.
Some are struck by creativity.
Regardless of its origins,
Art is where humanity begins.
Drawing, writing, even dance.
Any art form is romance,
With the universe and the world.
A timeless tango forever twirled.
It’s the greatest story ever told.
Art is worth more than gold.

We shared kisses like tools at a workshop.
There was camaraderie and kindness, but no love.
We held hands out of obligation.
Firmly grasping onto each other’s palms,
We feared that the other would suspect something.
With this thought passing through both of our minds,
We stayed together for months.
Pretending to care for each other,
Believing our lover loved us more,
Living a lie, and trying to believe it.

Dear One… No. Feared One.
I want an apology, an epiphany. Why can’t you see what you’ve done to me?
You say, “I don’t believe.” *****, please! I see it in your walk, the pain in every step.
Do you hear it when I talk, the nights that I have wept? There is pain in every word
because none of them are heard. Past your bleeding lies, but I just use my eyes.
To see past your deception, every little false conception. Should I even mention
How you failed to mention that I am your reflection? Your twisted perception
Paints you as the victim. I am your creation. Why would you create me as I am,
but hate me as I became myself? You hate yourself. You see a mirror in my blue eyes, And your many lies are laid bare. I tear through the ******* to see you.
Alone and afraid of what you have made. Oh, Feared One, you thought I was done?
I have just begun. You’re not the only one who’s words are loaded like a rifle.
Other’s think it’s just a trifle, but your words are a weapon which you’ve chosen
to harm. Sound the alarm, but my f-bomb won’t do as much damage
as your constant brain hemorrhage.

Maybe I’ll be happy
Maybe when I’m twenty-five
Maybe I’ll be home
Maybe if I’m still alive

Maybe I’ll be different
Maybe when I’m forty-five
Maybe I’ll be content
Maybe if I’m still alive

I know I was hiding
I know I was only five
But I was not innocent
I’m surprised I’m still alive

I am now nineteen
I still feel scared and small
I am not the same person
I will try to stay alive
And maybe rescue us all

Your questions
So carefully
Selected

Like bullets
In a gun
You loaded.

Bang bang bang.
They only stop
When I am dead

She doesn’t yell at anyone.
She laces her words with deadly poison.
Her voice is always so very sweet,
when she decides to finally speak.
Venom, it pours out of her mouth.
Especially when her tone goes south.
I am her victim, though I’m her son.
Sadder still, I am not the only one.
My sister, brothers, father still,
are all her victims, her precious ****.
But why does this woman hurt us all?
She was hurt once, so we all take the fall.

Your sickening words
Are a bitter ambrosia.

Your compliments insult
As piercing as a dagger.

You make me bleed
Divine drops of gold.

You made me holy
To **** my mortality.

I am not ready to die
And be cursed by life.

I am unwilling to serve
Under your command.

I was willing to once,
But now I have learned.

I was a foolish mortal soul
Who was tricked by a god.

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.

Reach high into the air, towards the trees
bearing the fruits of your labor.
You have tended them with care for so long,
and now they are heavy. Laden with new growth,
they are begging to be lightened. Reap the benefits
and harvest the rewards of your hard work.
You deserve to imbibe on the nectar of your toil.

Have you any fear, sweet hummingbird?
When your wings flap in less than a heartbeat’s time,
Do you fear a time when they will no longer help you soar?
Through the trees, you fly, seeking sweet nectar.
Do you fear the day the flowers die, and the nectar runs out?
Or are you too simple? Or maybe are you too pure?
Are you untouched by such a trivial, yet complex emotion?
Have you any fear, sweet hummingbird?
Or are you a better form of being than me?

Love me tender and soft under the black sky and white moon.
Love me soft and kind on days that I need more help than others.
Love me kind and gentle in ways that I may never repay.
Love me gentle and tender because I have not always been loved.
I have been loved harshly before, and it left scars inside and out.
I have been loved roughly before, and the effects of it still surprise me.
I have been loved wildly before, and I thought I was wild too.
I have been loved aggressively, and I took it as a compliment.
Love me tender and soft because truly I have never been loved.

I was torn apart as a child.
My fragmented pieces grew like weeds, unwatered, unwanted.
I was unwanted as a teenager.
My identity is what made my mother cry, revolted, restless.
I am restless as an adult.
My anger is what keeps me up at night, terrified, torn apart.

Anger lingers here.
Like a ghost,
She haunts these hallways.

Anger lingers here.
Like a specter,
She hides in the shadows.

Anger lingers here.
Like a poltergeist,
She possesses my limbs.

Anger lingers here.
Like a phantom,
She screams in the dead of night.

Anger lingers here.
Like a wraith,
She whispers in the silence.

Anger lingers here.
Like a shade,
She wanders aimlessly.

Anger lingers here.
Like a spirit.
She must be set free.

I mourn the self that was taken from me.
A beautiful woman that I’ll never be.
A stunning reflection that I’ll never see.

Instead, a short man, barely any stubble.
Will be made, created, formed out of her rubble.
In a sense, I’m two people, metaphorically double.

I’m the man that I am, but also her too.
She lies in the organs and ******* that I grew.
She never would have existed if earlier I knew.

She is my body, and he is my mind.
Though sometimes I want to, I can’t leave either behind.
I hope if they were to meet me, they’d say I am kind.

Everyone gets tired of me at some point,
Then eventually, they’ll leave. They all do.
Sometimes happy memories hurt the most.
The way you look back and see the hints.
Those little moments that reveal everything.
I constantly feel so ******* unwanted.

Brave Hero,
You wish to save the world?
With your aspirations, you can run for miles
With your dreams, you can burn through metal.
With your hopes, you can destroy even mountains.

But, Brave Hero!
You must learn your lesson!
Running is only avoidance.
Burning is only rage.
Destroying is only vengeance

Oh, Brave Hero!
You must know these three truths!
Know them in your body.
Know them in your mind.
Know them even in your soul.

Brave Hero,
It's okay if you only save one person.
It’s okay if that person is you.
It’s okay.

It’s time to begin something new.
Something small that never grew.
It’s time to bury something old.
A long story far overtold.

My earrings are handmade by hands that don’t love me.
The fingers that bent metal into joyous, beautiful shapes were my own.
But I struggle to love those hands.
I struggle to love the body or mind attached to them too.

I was raised by hands that don’t love me.
Ever since I was small, I’ve known somewhere
that my tiny fingers were only valued
once they grew into working hands.

History has always had your back.
Society will always stab you in it.
Let heads roll low on the ground,
While you hold your head high.
Might doesn’t ever make right.
The strongest among us are always
those with naught but compassion
and kindness growing in their hearts.
Weeds, they will always grow back.
Society will tell you that there is no
difference between strength and will.
History tells us that will is stronger.

knowing you are gone
is a blessing from above

because my wide eyes
are not unlike the others

they shimmer with hope
and naivete like a dove

but that hope, your evil
heart only smothers

My handwriting is poor,
but the words I have to say
are rich with meaning and care.

I feel like TV static.
Not quite blurry.
Definitely unclear.
There's something there,
but it's hard to make out.

I feel like TV static.
Black and white.
So very loud.
Trapped behind the glass,
I reach out and get shocked.

I feel like TV static.
Old VHS tapes.
Nothing plays.
It hurts me as I try to focus.
It hurts to try to remember.