do you not have any thoughts or ideas? besides how to stop someone else besides the constant gripes and ******* after all, i just met you playing billiards you asked me how i made the cue ball do all that crazy stuff that's what started this conversation and now you say you're done conversatin' it's conversing...ah...nevermind sorry that i didn't want to discuss politics or **** or jesus or your neighbor's wife or ford trucks or hunting it's not that i think i am better than you it's just that i have a different outlook now think new, and discuss new things not material new things
after all, i just met you playing billiards you asked me how i made the cue ball do all that crazy stuff it's called english how i made the cue ball do all that crazy stuff it's called english...ah...nevermind
Four artists and a preacher on mountain top Reign over their emotions And spinning hands Clinging to a mothers mouth Modelled through souls connected
With these tendrils An eye to their future Reachs out into a valley of dreams The poetic centre sweeps hearts on fire The sunset smiles over jubulation
The Junipers final days Are sworn to the eye watching over the The depth of space The ashes of space are drawn into its center A greater peace now invaded the hum.
based on an art installation in Riba Roja, catalonia. The four artists unveiled the piece yesterday accompanied by poetry spoken by the artists and a art teacher who was set on distant rock formation. All overlooking a small valley of olive trees as the sunsets over a mountain range and the river Ebre. This poem was my immediate response and reply to the artists and their installation.
I was like that a while ago Now I’m on a field reading a book It’s a book of poems by Sylvia Plath And the world looks terribly sad On the horizon but here the grass is green.
Your face looks blue in this light Words softly said… you’re wonderfully lyrical When you’re sad. What a terrible thing to say Suddenly exclaimed, a laugh, swift movement And drag of a cigarette. You stare at me
And say: that’ll **** you you know But you look so good when you do it So does it matter really and I look at you And laugh and feel alive for the first time In years and years and whispering you say
Remember the time we had met And you showed me the way you painted So dreamlike, so expressionistic. I stared into the canvas and was ****** Into your mind, you put me into a trance
As potent as the nicotine rush of a cigarette Take a draw and I watch the smoke Rise into the air and far away… How much of this city’s air is tobacco A quick query a weak laugh.
Golden hour and the green hills Turn into sand dunes collapsing In on themselves, things come and go In that way, time passes in a blink of an eye And suddenly there is a void.
Nothing remains unless you put it on a canvas. My body tears itself apart every seven years And one day I will stop with the blink of an eye And I never would’ve been here. They’ll stay. The sands of time may drag me away
The universe through my eyes May implode and blink out But regardless of what happens to me They’ll stay. They’ll always stay. Your eyes are drawn to a canvas
On which was painted dreams A splash of red, figure shining gold With grey above it being the smoke From a half used cigarette. Staring at it hours after it’s conception
You tell me it’s the best work You’ve seen in a long time And even though I can’t take compliments I turn to you and say, name it for me. You call it expression of sunlight.
Behold the smooth transition of brushstrokes and bristles to the field of marigolds. The sweet friction brought by divine hands, is the depth you were searching for.
And as the storm rolls in, high on the technicolor clouds, you take a moment to catch your breathe. Next thing you know the rainbow wildfire blooms from the painted raindrops, setting the flowers ablaze.
It is a world created of mind made matter, and if you cannot see the parallels, then you lack the imagination!
Any fiction can carve its way into reality, that is the truth of all worlds.
That is the key, forge your ambitions and blow the doors wide open.
Tattoos are scars we choose to keep-- words we want to carry, memories we fear losing; ink and needle are the self-inflicted stinging: the pain we choose to feel. art on our bodies-- out of our minds-- something real.
I have my father's name tattooed on my wrist not because I forgive him, but because I have forgiven myself and I choose to carry that with me.
My colourful mind melts upon your skin drips from your lips slips from your hips you’re looking like rainbows in raindrops tints trapped in teardrops blobs of purple slop stain violent splats of violet paint on the palette of my brain stay in the line of my mind eyelashes for brushes red roses and rosy rashes fireworks and knee jerks yellow and low blows all these and much more are greener than folklore seasides and sea-saw whys your eyes so blue for? go ahead and kiss me taste the colours you adore
Have you ever seen the way A bushfire sets beautifully ablaze The deepest, darkest forest trees A melting-orange intensity It brings about an ash of gold Like the smothering dust of charcoal The wildest destruction ever to see In the eyes of a son who came from me
Something that I’m passionate about is art. Whenever I’m stuck on a feeling, a thought, a memory, or even a conversation that makes me upset, I draw. I let my feelings flow through my pen or brush. It airs out all the gunk inside myself. Sometimes its just intense scribbles that tear up the page, or a bright painting, or maybe a crying clown. Its how I express myself. Its how I speak my truth. Its just how I relax, it’s calming, comforting, safe.
This is a poem I wrote in English class and thought it was good enough to post here.