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.

If Emily Dickinson was writing a suicide letter:

Dear Soft Reality,
Your presence brings me grief and your absence leaves me emptily blissful. You leave my heart to suffer under your cold dagger of truth. I see no purpose to further seek you, only to face my murderer in the bitter realms of my heart that have been so tortured by your harsh precision. To go on would be madness, but perhaps that is what I have become. A madwoman, trapped by lies of true love and wishful thinking. My heart was so filled with the falsity that has become love, and compassion. To completely give yourself to somebody, to find out that their heart already belongs to another fortunate soul, has by far been the down  fall of my sanity. I cannot cry any more, what good would it do. I cannot deny the truth that my love has been poured into an bottomless pitcher…but oh how beautiful that pitcher was. It promised me everything I could dream of, so pristine and clean, signifying all that is good. It was decorated with ornate blossoms that told of new beginnings and hope and it’s spout was graced with delicate greenery that promised fortitude and protection from all that could bring harm. Now all I see is despair. As I took a closer look at its intricate detail, I began to nice the rotting leaves that lay beneath the blossoms, and the tiny thorns that lay prominently on the vinery across the spout. It has been a trap from the beginning, and I am in love with it.
            However, I have poured my soul into that pitcher, and I have nothing left. My heart is parched and crackling, and my love has dried up on the shores of desperation. All that I have loved is gone, and my hope of release lies in a steel barrel of pain that lies in my left hand. It is beautifully real. I can wrap all of my loathing fingers around its cold trigger; it shows me the only truth that has been made clear to me. Death.  I have been yet a tall drink, chilled on ice, numbed to reality, sipped on by the devil himself. Well the devil has had his share and is drunk on my love, leaving me an empty glass, with melted ice. I can feel every pang of you. There is nothing more for me here.
I shall introduce this truth to my mouth, and it will be sweet, like the first time I met his lips, so gentle and unassuming. Only this time, when death is promised, it will not be masked with love and tenderness. My tongue will make love to its silver bullet, as my mind slips into peace and silence from the wolves of my torment.

Growth is prevalent in your features.
I can physically see your soul expand,
I can physically see your heart has been fertilized with wisdom.
Wisdom and hurt.
Wisdom and pain.
Pain and love.
They are one in the same.
I am the one to blame.

I can see my strength evolving inside you.
I'm watching my evolution.
I'm seeing all my revelations.
I'm witnessing a dance,
A tango of confusion,
A salsa of reflection.
I've subconsciously been your instructor.

Please remember I'm on your side.
I've dragged you through my pain
And you've grown into my foot steps.
I'm proud.
Please remember.

theres alot of angry people in this world.
mad at life
how their cards were dealt
however lacking the maturity to take responsibility
for how they played their hand.
being ignorant
and blind to your own faults is deadly.
i pray that my eyes
will never lose sight of my flaws.
they're not very appealing,
but are crucial to my growth as a genuine,
happy person.
open your eyes everybody.
your happiness
is sitting in your flaws.

I love you.
Deep breath.
I'll hold on to you forever.
Keep blowing.
You are the only one for me darling.
Puff, Puff.
You are the infinite life I cradle in my heart.
BLOW.
Empty promise,
Lost hope,
Meaningless ramble,
Cliché upon naïve hearts.
POP!
What's left?
Air.
Empty, deflated, air.

And in the static my of thoughts
I find all my energy
wound into a raging ball
of unstoppable,
yet meaningless fury.

Quietly she creeps at night
Hoping for a another chance
Not knowing if her limbs will hold
She caters to her worst fears feast
Her heart needs not proceed to know
Rapture’s just around her lungs
Shattering her lifeless dream
Quietly she dies inside.

Nothing moves.
My house is quiet.
The universe is in a whirlwind.
My mind has been swept up with the ruble.
Everyone is sleeping, drifting in a parallel existence.
Where are they?
I'm stuck in reality. Alone. In the dark.
But I am not isolated.
Someone must be haunting me.
Someone's parallel existence is seeping into my reality.
I'm not alone.
I'm surrounded by your subconscious thoughts.
They're scary.

Sitting in a **** storm.
Its poetic.
Anger puts a silver bullet in your static dynamic.
Rage chokes out your common sense.
Bitterness is seeping from the corners of your smile,
                  Like poison.
All of your pain is real.
Tangible,
Unchanging,
Concrete.
The only 'silver lining' is the metallic placed by anger.
And as your heart pitter patters,
your limbs weaken,
your mind depletes,
You see hope galloping off into the distance.
Off to infest another potential uprising,
                 Like poison.
Nothing is real.
None of it matters anymore.

Boredom mixed with anxiety churns in my stomach like a witch stirring her cauldron with gaseous fumes pouring over the top if it. I look around the chapel at all of the faithful companions of Christ, blind to the world, each alone inside their corridors of thoughts and aspirations with walls reeking piety and devotion. Lurking over his congregation, as a child does over his coveted toys, the priest made his way down the expansive stretch of red carpet, its parameters where lined with gold, like timber in a holy fire place.  The priest began his journey of inspection, trying to smell out the sinners. The vapor of my anxiety turned into beads of sweat that I wore around my neck, every now and again, losing a gem down my spine. I knew I stank of lies and false religion. Scrutiny fell upon me like the light that spewed from the navy and blood red stained glass window, creating a downtrodden shadow across my doomed soul. The bellow from the choir was a spell that turned everything to slow motion. My darting eyes saw everything turn into maple syrup, as the priest continued his molasses march to my seat. With each antagonizing step I could see my stench grow stronger and go deeper into his nostrils because with each step his face grew deeper into contortion, as the fumes began to infect his pious aura.  His shadow gripped me like hell itself, containing me, overbearing, and set my self esteem on fire. With one motion, he dragged one robust hand out of his robe and pointed to the wooden doors lain with more stained glass filled with light, that gave hope of the outdoors. He needn’t say a single word to communicate his command. I rose quickly, like a fox in the brush, and scurried to my escape. The churches play things caught wind of my gaseous stench, and took a moment out of their piety to further investigate my sin as a ran down the aisle. Their eyes weighed on me like hot branders, each look creating a new burn, which could only catalyst more unpleasant odor. Those wooden doors where forever shrinking from my grasp, contradicting my forward motion. When I finally reached that wretched golden handle I was covered in religious blistering sores of analysis and lies. I wore my sweat necklace all over my body. I wouldn’t feel comfort until the sun settled on my skin and the breeze took rest in my hair. I didn’t look back at my judgment hall, as I hoped to leave it all behind me, not letting any of it escape with me out those giant wooden doors.  My exodus was glorious. Slamming the doors behind me, my stench no longer laid idle in a church pew, but took flight with the breeze. I was once again undetectable  to the nose of the moral.

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.

One night, I started a conversation with a lover.
We spoke in haikus.


Do not be concerned/ The darkness will fade my dear/ The sun is ours.

I wish not for light/ The darkness is our domain/ The night brings our truth.

Wherever light may shine/ Darkness has slept there longer/ Open up your eyes.

A blind truth stays true/ Daylight has no secret proof/ In darkness I remain.

I wish to show you/ Even suns are dark at core/ Life exists more.

I wish more for you/ Your an infinite red giant/ Glow forever love.

Suns bursts and implode/ A black hole could breath you in/ I shall do the same.

I am the black hole/ Let my absorb your presence/ Absence needs purpose.

Absence doesn't exist/ Even silence gives thoughts rise/ Here I am, for you.

As you are for me, The sun is for the darkness/ Darling let us dance.

Tango with darkness/ Bedsheets shall be our dance floor/ Youre turning me on.

Tomorrow is another day,
and I’m supposed to be happy about writing this.
Tomorrow is another day
that is not the day I want it to be.
I need two more tomorrows until I can break free from this plaid conformity
and wear the freedom of the weekend.
After those two tomorrows,
I’ll be begging for a yesterday.
Tomorrow is another day,
another drive,
another monotony of hours
strung together by breath and boredom.

Happy Fathers Day.
I said to a pile of dirt.
Daddy I love you.
I thought in an aimless prayer.
Thanks for being there Dad.
I said to ******* nobody.
I want to be just like you when I grow up Dad.
I said to a dead man.
Cancer cradled me to sleep.

Wisdom is a powerful weapon.
It is a twelve gauge, blasting the foolish where they stand,
Exploding their ego’s into ashes and ,
Melting uncanny auras, with knowledge their clothes will redden.
Silencing violence with a bullet of truth,
Piercing through a density of ignorance, they will no longer withhold,
To forget everything that they have been told,
Wisdom will intervene in the shape of a nine millimeter, coming only to soothe.

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.

I have previously posted a segment of conversations I had with a lover, in which we only spoke to each other in haikus. Believe it or not, the romance continues.

Words are just cop-outs/ My actions will speak volumes/ I hope to keep you.

Your words are weighted/ Your actions will build mountains/ I can't wait to climb.

Beauty is final/ You are borderline divine/ See you in my dreams.

I ******* love you/ I shall  meet you in the stars/ I'll intrude your dreams.

Faith is slight hopes lost/ Until you see the beauty/ Meet me in the sky.

I don't need to hope/ Knowledge is more powerful/ Sleep pretty my darling.

Know I'll keep you safe/ From all that wants you weakened/ We ******* prevail.

As you keep me safe/ I will keep you on your feet/ You won't see failure.

My head is spinning/ There is nothing I can say/ To show you my love.

I don't need your words/ I need you wrapped in my ribs/ Closest to my heart.

As close as atoms/ Dancing with one another/ You and I shall be.

<33

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.

Shoulders are counter tops for your problems.
Heavy.
Burdens find their way to the left of your ear.
Heavier.
You can smell the turmoil.
Too Heavy.
Churning and churning, the output is despair.
Too Heavy to move.
A kitchen rag of hope does a quick sweep.
Freedom.
A whiff of happiness travels to existence.
Feather-light.
What a clean kitchen you have.

You are no longer asleep, but there's  no way you can be awake.
Being awake doesn't feel like this.
Being alive doesn't feel this cold.
Your eyes are open.
Your heart is beating.
Your blood is pumping.
But there is nothing to see,
There is no drive to your heart.
It's running on fumes of empty hope.
Your blood is intoxicated with lies.
It no longer flows life.
You are the living dead.
Full of organs.
Capable of physical expression.
Dead of purpose, meaningless in intention.
Here is to you,
The living dead.

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.”