i dream of you in color
old black and white portraits
on the kitchen counter
and i thought
i was the only one
who loved you.
you are so old fashioned
no message i ever send
seems to get through.
if love is a drug,
these are the side effects.
i hold a shell
up to my ear,
expecting to hear the ocean.
i hear nuclear tests
and the challenger explosion.
and i can't breathe anymore
when it stops my heart
just to know where you are.
and if someone asked you
things that are blue, you'd say,
the sky, the sea,
and all i can think of
is being every color in your life,
the paint to your palette.
but it is too late.
you are color blind and
you will never see how bright i am.

I want to starve for my art with you
until our faces have sunk in
and our shy skeletons have shown themselves
through our skin, scarred with regrets and tattoos.
I want to write with you
until we hallucinate those skeletons leaping from our bodies
and waltzing with each other while we lay
limp and high on the floor —
until we have nothing left but each other
and stacks upon stacks of 99-cent notebooks
filled with testaments of our madness
and love
like some kind of unholy matrimonial vows
that bind us together
with a silver coil.

I want to paint on the walls with you
until our ****** apartment becomes a gallery
the best gallery in New York
that no one will know about,
at least until we OD
and the stench of our frail bodies leads them here
to these walls painted with the last of our strength.
Until you know how it feels to have death
breathing on your neck
and offering to buy you a drink
and take you home
to pick your mind like a gentleman.

Let’s write our story
then jump from the bridge of sanity
that connects the pointless gap between reality
and the brick wall on the other side
that looms over humanity—
so fall with me
until you know what it's like
to be loved by a poet
who most think is dead inside.
Until you know that I am beautiful
when you step into this little world
that I’ve made up like a god
with one big bang
of imagination and lies
spiraling forever into a darkness
that no one but me
will ever comprehend.

The writer's table is vacant.
The Poet's papers fly amok.
The Painter's brush is stuck in hardened paint..
Pictures have been pulled down
and burnt with the fire of intolerance.
Theatres have been vandalised
and stages are silent, empty.
The jobless critic looks for a prey,
hence, there are fewer flies and mosquitoes

The point has been proved
You do we say, we say you do
for our feet are sticky with squishy remains
of pens and easels and words...
No songs will be written, no tales told
We live with fire, in fire, by fire
What else can we do but burn?
We equate Force with Peace, so,
Don't ask - where are the Artists?

The Artists are dead.

Drunken kisses,
stolen looks.
Skipping beats,
doubting thoughts


But is there still a triangle for me to rage against?
Is there still some feelings there?
From you?
From her?
From me?

You wrote a song about her,
Will there be one for me?

N. Hedges

I

That idol, with black eyes and pixie-cut, with
aristocrats nobler than artists, holier than New York City
hipsters; his selfishness running through her veins,
purple and blue like blood, or tarnished by amphetamines
in waves of ferocious sadness and yearning.

At the border of her life- young hope twinkles, fades
and dulls out- the girl with chandelier earrings, deer
legs, dancing in silver reflections of tears gushing
from the aftermath of shattered dreams dressed up
as vivid illusions.

Ladies who stroll outside of society, girls
plucked from art school, with trust funds, superb luxury
wardrobes, jewels on show but riches hidden in the
ground of trusting valleys in burnt gardens- young and
broken with eyes full of flashing lights, sullen, princess
of costume and keeping hidden. Gently ignored and
choked, unhappy.

What boredom, without your "genius."

It is she, the little girl, dead before innocence-
The young artist, alive, does not stoop- his life
creeks but for a second. His inspiration empty
and studio up for sale. Her shutters pulled down
and the key to superstardom in the lock forever
because the soul is empty.

The city's silver fountains drowned and cried for her
fabulous elegance.

II

I am the life who mourns like blue summertime.

I am the academic who waves manuscripts on
elusive "culture" and "style."

I am the pedestrian who looks up to the sky then turns
to the ground. Smoggy greyness and dead black
concrete pleads me to keep searching.

I might well be the same child; lost and unhappy
and hungry. Dreaming of touching stars but miles
from Heaven.

I am the artist. Manipulative creator and selfishness
embedded into the sinews of my heart.

The lamp shines brightly on these happy photographs. I
keep falling for these stupid books. Edie, oh, Edie.
You have gone and the world is ending!

I am not a poet,
Never intended to be one.
I am not a singer,
Nor can I sing swell.
I am not an actor,
As I cannot fake about anything.
I am not a painter,
As colors are all same precious to me.
I am not a dancer,
As I understand no rhythm.
I am not a performer,
As stage is not my world.
I do not really know what I am,
But I am definitely not something I don’t intend to be.
I am rather a person who fail at everything,
Yet passionately stand at feet,
Yearn to learn.
I am an ARTESS…
I rather master the art or die trying..
I am an ARTESS…
And all art is my Imagination within the living dream, I dream.
I am an ARTESS..
And I never intend to stop creating a masterpiece for the peace of my world.
I am nothing at all,
But I am everything.
I am a Dreamer,
My dreams that I imagine  are my art.
I thrive to make them true..

Poets meld through words
Artists paint the world
Translate souls onto canvas

No good art ever came from people
Who had the world's admiration hoisted
On their shoulders
And no great piece was ever penned by a human hand
While the creator was holding society's *****
Tightly in the other.

I will never understand artists.

They move, beholden to the dictates of an unseen master, in ways that I can't fathom.

They produce works which I could not create, do so for a cost that I wouldn't pay, and roll with highs that I can't imagine.

All in all, I know they are different. That's easy to say now, but much harder to say when you are with an artist.

Artists are attractive. Free, confident, focused, and talented: what's not to love? If an artist takes you as their muse, you become part of the process, which at first seems amazing.

You get to be part of the creation of something bigger than yourself! Then, you realize that you are the emotional equivalent of a paintbrush for the artist; a disposable tool. That makes the whole thing seem less amazing.

Artists are devoted to their art, that's what makes them special. It's also what makes you less than special to them. You can be around when it helps the process, but make no mistake, when it doesn't help the process, you are out.

Commitment to an artist is nothing in comparison to craft. They have to produce; it's their life. So, really, I can't blame them (ok, I really mean that I can't blame her) for not behaving normally.

They never said they were normal. Why did I expect otherwise?

I wonder if cats care for music
Because their meows are so emotional
I wonder if I need to listen to what you're saying
Because I hear you and the melody sounds rad
I need music
Music needs fans
I need music
It puts me in the zone
Thoughts that make sense
The air feels so dense
Swallowing air
I've never felt more intense
The feelings are driving me home
I can't believe you're from this world
Because I've always felt like an alien soul
Something tells me
Someday I'll meet you