I once wondered what drove
A man to pick up a brush
And apply water colors to
A white piece of paper.
This was before I wise;
I owned only my arrogance,
For all the facts in my head
Were first discovered elsewhere.

"Paint is wet, it will destroy
The flimsy paper," I thought.
The paper endured.

I went through my limited
Bits of logic before I resorted
To a sensory argument.
"It doesn't sound like writing."

Oh, how I loved the scratch
Of a pencil against a fresh sheet.
It exhilarated my senses like
Few other things could.

"Furthermore, what good does
Art do? The painter makes
Something and it goes to a
Museum for people to look at.
How can that possibly better
Any part of the world?"

An older artist listened to my
Ramblings with more patience
Than I would credit the human race.

He smiled knowingly, and said to me,
"I have never seen the point of
Writers. They merely shut themselves
Away from everyone else and put
Their opinions on a piece of paper.
How can they possibly benefit the
World? What can they do?"

As my anger rose from deep in
My throat, the artist merely said
To me, "Have you never realized
That art and words are both important?
That one is never better than the other?
Here, I have a challenge for you:
Try to paint. Paint, and then tell me
That art is useless. In the meantime,
I will attempt to write and tell you the same."

So convinced that I was right, I agreed
Without a second thought. I never noticed
The knowing gleam in the old man's eye.

The next morning, I borrowed some paints
And a canvas, intent on proving my point.

Before the first stroke stained the page,
My hand still in motion, I became a believer.
In the heartbeat that it took for my muscles,
Nerves, and synapses to carry out my mind's
Order, I became
The artist,
The canvas,
The brush,
And the space between,
Charged with potential and kinetic energies.

I understood the point of art, to be the art
And to make the art. The painter and the artist.
The painter paints for others. The artist paints
For the outpouring of his soul.

I called the artist to tell him this, and
Found that he had been about to call me.
"I do understand," we said together.

He told me how he had realized the difference
Between writer and storyteller. The storyteller
Wrote for the audience, to entertain them with
A new fable. The writer wrote for both himself
And the story. He told me that he became both.

I relayed my own revelation. He didn't seem
Surprised, but, looking back, I should have
Known that had been his intention all along.

I don't think, however, he had expected to
Discover what drove me as well.
We both became wiser that day.

I still know that I am not wise. I probably
Never will be, but I have tasted the fruits
Of my arrogance, and almost lost a
Beautiful experience because of it.

Arrogance is now ashes in my mouth,
But I have decided to turn it into ink on a page.
Or, perhaps, water colors on canvas.
They are both forms of magic.

The river seems to have calmed.
This bend.
Fragrant and alluring.
Has made me a part of its course.
The demon inside is becoming.
Restless.
This harmony.
Must desire destruction.
What being doesn't want havoc to come.
Raze over the bright colorful paint.
With knives and bullets.
Leaving behind hatred and sarcasm.
I tremble.
Through fear.
Not of what I knew what was.
But because I.
Didn't want to cast a single rock into the reflective surface.
Not even move.
For a single motion would surely cause this peace.
To ripple away.
I must die to myself.
Find the balance needed.
I have overcome the rapids that ****** me into disarray.
Shredded here and there from the blade like stones that lined the shore.
What is a little pain.
To truly gain what is wanted.
When the torrent of agony and distress was never.
Wanted.
So I lie my weary head back.
Close my eyes for the first time in years.
And listen.
For trying to steer has done nothing thus far.
Maybe it was time.
To let the river guide me.
So.
I smile.
And exhale.
As the sun kisses my body with its warmth.
Another first..

Only on grounds of seniority
By default
You try to assume authority
But mind that
Though for a century
Under water comfortably sat,
Swim like a fish
A stone can't!

The saddest man I ever met
Wasn’t that lonely beggar
Who hunts for food in garbage bins
And performs incoherent monologues
Because there’s nobody to listen

The saddest man I ever met
Wasn’t that social media hero
Who tries to gain some self-worth
By creating a superman persona
Because there’s nobody that really knows him

The saddest man I ever met
Wasn’t even that peculiar man
Who keeps on staring through the window
Imaging the people passing by are terrorists
Or at least bloodthirsty aliens

The saddest man I ever met
He’s actually quite happy
And ignorant of his ignorance
Blatantly he rips through lives
As if he’s the Next Big God’s Gift

Maybe you need to stop sticking your nose in the air
Because without looking down
                                                           you
                                                                     may
                                                                                F
                                                                                         A
                                                                                                  L
                                                                                                        L

I’ve always been intimidated
By the man in the mirror
With his cocky face and his self-assured grin

I’ve always been imitated
By the man in the mirror
With his worried sigh and his eyes full of doubt

chest pressure like a wasted life
hiding from the possibility
of living I have never spilled these
few years into anything
except for everything
this is the unbeatable monster of
nothingness and robotic arrogance
of undeniable certainty
I AM TRUTH I HAVE TRUTH
spilling over my cup runneth over with
disdain and my teeth are sour
from sleeping I hate the taste
of sleep
in my mouth like over-chewed mint gum
cliche stories have never
clicked with me
I would like to watch you smile for
a few hours before I believe
the pressure in my chest is
legitimate life will die
'***** u man in sky'
I believe that this will not

There was once a fox, a fox whose name had gone unknown, but nevertheless was in truth all on its own.
With a pelt of fire and auburn, and eyes deep and serious,  it was no doubt why so many considered the fox "mysterious".
Yet, this tale is different, and I will tell you why, this fox was not like the rest, he sought to be like the wolves- twas' no lie.

He envied their beauty, their ability and strength, in fact his admiration went on to a fractured great length.
He would try to howl and change his stature- hell even his look, it was a matter of great indifference, but try as he might- no matter how long it took.

In time, after so much effort he took to the wolf, they welcomed him and never knew his story, pride and arrogance he was engulfed.
He followed and lived as one for the while he was deceived, but after all the time had past, disgust and mockery from all other animals was what he received.

It was only when the wolves outwitted him and made him a fool, that they chased him and slandered him, oh, the treatment had been cruel.
Now the fox understood why animals each held their own class and identity, when he realized then why he was meant to be.

A fox he was and would always stay, to the start of his life to the finish of his decay. Yet, he was reminded of why foxes were special, it was because they were no one else; it was stupid to compare, whether it be lion or mouse.  He saw beauty in an idol of its own, he became so mesmerized and driven, that even his heart he disowned. He saw no beauty in himself, when really all others did, that now his respect and dignity was so pitifully dead.

Though he admired the wolves and tried to seek them without end, let it be known fame and popularity is a horrid trend. So there are others greater and have more to do, but have you ever considered they may wish to be you?

Like the fox who wanted to be a wolf,  but in time fell too much in greed, be careful of the lies you choose to follow and take heed! Because not every beautiful face is as kind and free, be happy you are You and can declare "I am me."

❥

Who is confident
Will be cognisant
Others may be right.
Who is arrogant
Will be adamant
They alone are right.
Therefore arrogance
Is just confidence
That's asserted; Right?
Or it may just be
Insecurity,
This need to be right.
To make others small
So one can feel tall
Is never alright!
Who gains this insight
Will have seen the light
And will do all right.