Pour out the color
Pour out the fear
Pour out excitement,
Happiness, and tears

Pour out the patterns
Until the paint runs
Tell us your story
And give us your love

But be careful, humans
I fear I must say
It's easy to channel nonsense
In a nonsensical way

it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.

Creativity is like fleeting moments of brilliance, which albeit, occurs regularly

What defines a person as an artist?
The way we talk,
The way we walk,
How we interact with one another,
How we choose to disturb the universe,
Is art.

You and I, are artists
Simply because we are alive.

gulping unprescribed vyvanse, to focus on material mind deceiving things on social media to see what all the fuss is about

social media is a place for the "malaventurados" locked in screens, purposely

why are they scared to explore the wilderness

be one with  nature, breathe the air people from a million years ago were breathing, breathe the same air dinosaurs were breathing if you believe in that prehistoric timeline

isn't it great?

we're jailed in technology, in "innovation", in "better solutions to meet new requirements"

we're walking on innovative grids thinking it's okay to cherish the unrealistic programmed websites made by those who weren't saved in time

exploring the internet, is like exploring ways to lose the key to freedom, to lose the key to the feel of soft grass on your feet, to lose the
to key to the feel of air brushing against your skin

be one with the air Adam breathed
be one with the good and evil
be one with the sun that looked over at Jesus Christ when he was being crucified
be one with the God you believe in that loves you as much as Cane hated Abel
be one with the earth, because today is a new chapter in the earths rotation
today's a new series of self made bibles for artists to grasp, and paint on a smooth textured canvas
today's a new TV show for poets to emulate in sentences along with metaphors, comparing love to pain

be one with what's been here for you all along, from the ocean that's plentiful with everything you need to be happy

Blasting out of the fog and mud
Past the forests in the sunrise
Farms and high ways
Trotting through suburbia
Through the tunnel
Defacing and refusing to allow themselves to be part of an unjust ******
Believe in the intermingling of colors
Waiting for the planets to fall into place
To stop for a moment and inhale the abundant harmony that surrounds them and emote and create a inspiring response in the form of self expressive freedom that matches the beauty that had compelled them

I must say
those of arts
writers and painters
so often trivialized
too often

how ironic then
for those who sweep us under
since we--
of words and lines
however similar or not
--are not the ones at expense.

Where's the magic
neither seen nor experienced
in reality,

and where's the escape
from your homes of present
but from us?
the minds who labor away
without showing
but upon the page, sheet or canvas.

If they made Holy Scriptures out of our deeds
How many would we put on display for everyone to read?
When Bani Israel was frozen in time
within divine words,
they did not know
they would become timeless lessons
for generations to come.
Not the liar when he told his last lie,
nor the careless while laughing at the cow,
not even the pious while he raised his staff.
Yet today, we read their stories
With heedless hearts ,
forgetting that we too will be written
in pages heavier than stones
on scales worth more than mountains of gold.
So, why do we pretend that our time is infinite?
As though tic tocs were nothing but melodious beats
synchronized to our pulse.

wal Asr
And by time
Innal Insana la fikhusr
Verily mankind is at loss

How can we not think of yesterday as an effigy,
And tomorrow’s uncertainty as a form of art?
We are artists.
And when our hair strands start to reflect the silver moonlight
When our eyes start telling century old stories
When our joints start pleading with time
Will we then finally ask ourselves:
What will there be left of us?
Originals,
or mere copies?