I am an artist.
I never chose to be but as long as I can remember art was near,
There was no first meeting, no awkward first impression.
It was always right there.
Art is a part of me, a quality written in my biology it’s my personality.
I can’t escape the urge to create,
To illustrate the beautiful picture in my mind,
To encapsulate feelings, project ideas, perfect a masterpiece.
I am an artist I paint;
I paint in hues colors and strokes.
I paint in words sewn together as delicate as a feather,
Yet as painful as a healing wound.
I cower every time I hear them being read aloud
Because these words are windows straight into my thoughts.
Leaving me feeling vulnerable, that’s why some art is unutterable.
Best portrayed using a paintbrush.
Coating the canvas with every color of the spectrum and every spectrum of emotion. Watching the pigments flow with no resistance,
A brush sweeping softly or with deep solid strokes
Always flawless because creativity can never be mistaken
It only awakens new perspectives perfected by the artist
Portraying her ideas precisely.
I am an artist because losing my self in art is my passion,
A distraction, imagine the endless horizons.
Art is the closest thing to magic,
A paintbrush the closest to a wand,
And an artist the closest to becoming an enchanter.

(alternately titled: Zayda born April 9th, 1929)

e'er since his birth,
     his daring do didst not abate
the penultimate most spectacular
     concrete incontestable product

     constituting biological offspring  
     developing, fashioning,
     and incubating gene nee us,
     he unwittingly didst create

encoded whence he got conceived
     approximately begat circa
     July nineteen twenty eight,
and hence upon April ninth

     two thousand and eighteen
     cometh denoting exceptional great
ness among kith and kin innate
awareness to take stock and celebrate,

how a series of fortunate events
     commencing with a date
to Harriet Kuritsky
     (at that time, yet to pledge her troth)

     accepting storied handsome fellow,
     whose constitution sturdy as "forest" timber    
     (definition of groom) to be lawfully wedded wife...
     until death do them part)

     unwittingly marriage didst emancipate
my mother, who met a awful, cruel
     and terminal undeserving fate,
which tortured demise, the grim reaper

     gladly, gleefully, and glibly
     held her steadfast
     thru death decreed grate
a permanent life sentence,
     she vehemently did hate

and fiercely fought tooth and nail
     (unimaginable to me,
     thee sole son), how
     agonizingly bitterly clearly irate

such suffering wrenched, wrought, wrung
August marriage permanently
     cleft by malicious, nefarious,
     and opprobrious tongue

no heroic measures,
     only lamentation slung
upon the livingsocial clinging,
     where grief rung

every last ounce,
     though thru each passing year
thy mum gone thirteen orbitz
     round the sun, that shear
ring raw emotion
     still persists in concert with lear
ring grimace of deathly hallows, 'ere

obstinate heart ache lessened now
since papa found bliss
     in which to steer the prow
of his four score and nine

     aged ship of state row
wing (or more or less peacefully drifting)
     berthed in consonant with vow
wills - a staunch spirit does wow!

Love.
A dangerous, cantankerous thing. No anchor is made for this
Pen and paper blamed for it, if I had a name for it
If I had a name for it, then I would be a slave for it

She said that I scoff too often
That I'm often too lost in the moment
The moment we first met, she smelled like a poem. Like loose leaves in the fall.
She had me falling like a paper plane with clipped wings
Winging it onstage because I reached the spotlight and forgot all my lines
She said it was fine. She never liked my acting anyway
She said if she wanted to date a phony, she would have gone for Oscar or Tony
If she wanted a Golden Globe she wouldn't have settled for a Lemonhead
She said I'm too sweet. That my lips look like strawberry fields and my kisses taste like forever. Yeah, she's a Beatles fan.
I was more of a fan of needles. On a syringe binge, she was my heroine in a red dress
I wanted her address to correspond with where my head rested
I wanted to take the rings from my eyes and wrap them around her finger so she would know she was the reason I couldn’t sleep at night
She said I was her knight in shining armor. Like a page from a fairy tale

Love.
If I had a name for it, maybe I could’ve changed for it
Played the game a different way and kept
her away from it

Her laughter was supposed to be my happily ever after. But it was stifled by heaven's rifleman
Like lightning striking twice and thunder had the audacity to applaud
She said I'm going home. I'm going back to God.
She said that this was the plan all along and if I'm ever longing for her face then I need to face the facts, retrace our steps and reenact for a friend. This isn't the end.
This is just a long-lost friend coming back to visit, isn’t it?
Cold hands gripping getting wet. Blurred vision, can I see her yet?
Timid lemonhead pressed against her wilting smile
She asked what were the first lines I remember writing about her…

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Every road has led me to you

She said that I scoff too often
That I'm often too lost in the moment to know when she's gone
The moment she left. She smelled like a poem. Like loose leaves in the fall
I'm falling from cloud nine, the wind constantly reminding me that she was never mine
And if she was His the whole time, she should have told me. Because now…
Now I have no one to hold me when I drop
No one to scold me when I scoff
No one to write a poem about when I'm lost

If I had a name for it, my mother would tell me
to pray for it. Ain’t that a shame that I am to blame for it?
What’s in a name but a home and a place to grow?
Every passing season gives me a reason too...
Spring showers, summer sun, and winter cold
Hold my name in contempt and place the blame


...she smelled like a poem. Like lost leaves when she fell for me.
Love.

bring out the ink, cover the page,
pools or creativity leak onto the desk.
you are incredible,
skill, abilities; boundless.
the sky's the limit and you’ve painted it with ten shades of blue.
brushes vary from size and shape,
pencils range in darkness and texture.
you create tones and shades,
different worlds, different beings present themselves;
bringing new things to existence,
making old things seem new.
you are an artist.
you create.
you, yourself, your art form,
a weapon.
skillful and sharp, utility.
along with your tools,
your training.
you too can become a weapon,
of mass creation.

-j.p.

Artists minds
Have fragile souls
The delicate way
We pen our words
Shows our vulnerability

We bare our scars
Triumphs
Hopes and dreams
To heal the pain
Of our wounded hearts

We must create
For our own understanding
Self-discovery
To process the turmoil
And calm our fears and anxiety

Tattooing our thoughts
On our readers minds
Letting each person who reads
Carry a piece of the pain with them
Until there is none left

Clouds of ****
Rain an eerie reminder
That I crave a passion

Though I reside
In an emotion
that solidifies

It causes me
to regret
and run

Hindering my performance
Flaky to the core
Refusing inspiration