Prism’s

Your pain,
is poetry,
a painting a drawing a piece of artwork,
spill your oily acrylic ink on me,

let’s make a mess of this fuss,
then forget it all in the clarity of luminous trust,

true,
you,
are poetry,
thoughts are the pen the place is the page,

detain your humane pain,
then express it plane in an artistic campaign,
through your prism’s windowpane,
until all that remains is your frame totally unrestrained,

your pain,
is poetry,
a painting a drawing a piece of artwork,
spill your oily acrylic ink on me…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

poor art boy,
his mind was a gallery,
full of art,
until the factory
of society,
came along polluting it,
with reality,
and tearing it apart.
poor art boy,
poor
art
boy
.