Freedom is simply a façade to the fact that we are all slaves to ourselves.
Beauty is only genuine in our material creations.
Beauty is something that we have conjured in our polluted minds,
as a stepping stone for hope of something better and concretely pleasing.
Oasis’s were created to give us peace of mind from the terrors of the rest of the world,
but while we sit and admire the soft billow of the wind,
and the gentle grace displayed by the adolescent creatures that appear out of the creek,
the tornado of destruction lives on inside each and every one of our forlorn and despair ridden souls,
creating what is the rest of a fearful society,
fretting the day they carry their misery over to the realm of the next.
Benevolence is foreign.
So disperse yourself if you wish in blissful ignorance,
worrying only about the direction of the cool breeze that playfully tassels your strands,
but dare ye turn blind to the authentic  substance this cruel cycle of life and existence,
understanding will never become native in your heart.

In your ocean of fury and confusion,
I’m a quaint coral reef,
representing all that you are not.
I am one,
singular blinking light, on an antique arcade game.
Contributing to the violent light show of the device,
yet serene in my own monotonous repetition.
**I am alone.

I don’t like this game.
Hundreds of eager fingers,
Racing for recognition.
Racing for fame.
I don’t like this cliché.
Swooning women,
Making young hearts melt.
Putting the illiterate to dismay.
I really hate this irony.
Independent women,
Eager to be unique and obscene.
Conforming to age old stereotypical crap.

I come home, and he hasn’t seen me in years.
I left at 7:30 this morning.
His love for me is communicated by the stench of his breath on my face,
Followed by a damp example of warmth.
I scolded him three and a half minutes prior.
He holds me tight every night, and stays until the morning.
I’ve been single for years.
I cook a meal for three,
Playing mind games with myself again.
He makes up for the empty seat.
I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.
His grin dissipates my boulders on anxiety.
He carries the weight of my loneness on his back.
Poor dog.

That force that takes control of your logic.
A slave to its fury.
You created it.
Your conscience frowns.
A simple catalyst forced its presence in your soul.
It now creates your expression.
Your face frowns.
One simple emotion that takes on a face of its own.
It growls at its opponents.
It conforms you to its ways and expression.
You wear a permanent scowl on your heart.
You look at your hands,
You don’t recognize the wrinkles drawn by rage.
You look at your feet,
You can’t see them because they have sank.
Deep into a pit of turmoil.
What do you feel?
Disgust.
Your heart frowns.

Stories I already knew,
Memories I try to forget, or try to remember,
They are hidden.
They hide behind a vortex of color and a fortress of extra ocular muscles.
They are hidden.
They hide behind a shadow of running mascara, drawn out by tears, beckoned by emotion.
I asked my eyes why they hid so much.
“I do not hide your stories.
I do not hide your memories.
I keep them in the fold of your heart.
Do not mistake my interpretations,
As deceit.
Do not confuse my expression,
As mystery.”

The life long question of what is art, will never have a concrete answer. Art will never be able to be constrained in the limitations of one definition, one label. Art is more than a form of expression, it is a constant energy. It moves through nature and finds its way into our souls and our minds. It creates in us a purpose, a motive, an initiative. Art is a single element that carries characteristics of every aspect of life and living. It is so much more than paint on a canvas. However, it is not always viewed this way, and that is my frustration as an artist. To hear the label 'good' or 'bad' slapped on a piece of art is disheartening. Would you judge the craftsmanship of a smile? Would you analyze the composition of a forest after a spring rain? With those questions, and their obvious answers, in mind, as you observe the art before you I challenge to see beyond the acrylic. Look beyond what is presented to your naked eye, look deeper into the energy that created the piece. With art, it is not always about the end product, but the journey of the process of which resulted in what you observe.
For me, my art has served as more than a therapeutic type of escape from reality. It has created a gateway into the deeper meanings of my own mind. Often times, when I start creating a piece, I have in my mind a single strand of a concept, and from that strand I weave together a web of symbols and thoughts I didn't even know where residing in the deeper realms of my mind. When I make my final brush stroke, I take a step back, and find more on the canvas than what was originally seeded in my head. I learn more from my art, than I could ever teach others. I do not make art to satisfy the creative thirst of an audience. I make art to expand my understanding of a psychological whirlwind that consumes my being.