To an artist,
Emotional dishonesty
Is the only death.

Doom this body to the grave
Before asking me to choke on my pain.

These tears are verse  
This anguish, punctuation.

The deepest peace is a poem
That blooms like a rose

After the storm
In my soul

Bursts!
And pours May showers
All over the page.

The child mournful,
A single salted tear slides down a cheek,
Holds the secrets of a woman,
Locked within a room,with a door that creaks.
She creates such sadness,
mother to the artwork,
Man who claims to be a father,
Overshadows the button of the girl’s dripping nose.

Etched within walls, a desire to say the truth:
“He’s not the artist”
Look within those big eyes,
the elegance of youth,
Deep inside her true love’s lies-
the choppy strands that show
the instability of growth
within the painter’s eyes.

Without books,
There would not be love,
Without poems,
There would not be love,
Without art, and literature, and music,
There would not be love.
Humans like magic and fairies and giants,
But science is a terrible sound,
And it wakes us from such fantastic dreams.
But there’s something close to magic,
The closest thing we have-
Love.
We can still dream about wild,
Unconditional love.
We can dream that there’s only one, true soul,
A perfect fit,
Two people designed for one another.
We can still dream,
About love.
It’s in every written word,
Sung note and brushstroke,
And every artist breathes it in through a mask,
Refusing the oxygen of reality.
We reject the uncertainty of our world in favor,
of the mysticism of that near-magic, love.
It’s a masochistic affair,
Worshipping that feeling that lives in our art,
Just out of reach.
I do not accept deceit.
I do not yearn for fiction to enter the tangible world.
But I do long for love,
For I do love,
I love art itself.

Why am I so desperate to be heard?
What is the panicked urgency within?
Why do I scratch my name into the earth,
Tree bark, picnic tables, paper,
In a frenzied bid to make the world understand?

I don't understand.

Don't worry...
We give the world vision
Words with color
Tasteful. delicious. language.

We stroke sixty shades of beauty
Accent the body
Observe. perfect. imperfections.

We layer music like cake
A sonorous crunch of bittersweet flavor
Crisp. textured. harmonies.

We expose raw motives of human beings
The aperture is our eye
Zoom. Focus. Click.

Don't worry...
Don't let Corporate America fool you.
Sure, we need doctors, lawyers, nurses, and politicians...but at the end of the day,
       that painting
       that melody
       that book
       that photo
  sparks dreams. desires. emotion.

warm weathers with a warmer heart:
i stretched out my arms
and embraced her with all i am.
this girl threw an ocean of words,
of images, of emotions, and even of silence at me
over a mango shake, kimchi fishcake,
and a pair of hot matcha lattes.
she challenged me to a doodle dare
when i told her i don't draw humanity,
as much as i wanted to draw her right there on the spot.
let's draw those people on that side of the cafe
ah, a people-watching activity!
just our kind of hobby that immerses us within society
while being in our own little world!
i noticed she draws people first
then the background according to the proportions of the persons;
yes, a people-watcher observing another people-watcher
unlike me who starts off with the walls and furniture of the space.
she drew the ovals for body proportions;
her pencil marks done gently, focused and magnified,
much like how she holds herself up.
thus we were satisfied with unfinished sketches
and incomplete acapella song covers;
and it definitely was a finished day–
complete with her presence,
photographs taken with cameras and our memory's eyes,
inside jokes about boys and talks about life outside.
the sun is getting lower
as the hour hand is getting higher.

Time continues but we paused.
So I'm up for another round with you, Lou.

He woke up like he was in a police lineup
Almost flunking out never became a regret
The library wasn’t exactly where they met
The people he knew are still his friends
The ones that are gone he’ll never forget

He smoked a few packs every ten years
But he didn’t really smoke you know
It was easy to quit ‘cause it was all for show
Not being paid for acting never mattered
A friend is being planted in the same row

He thanked Jesus enough to be noticed
He never felt worthy enough to pray
Who asks for what they can’t give away
It’s hard being an artist with limits
So he said the hurt will never play

He didn’t want anyone to take care of him
It was hard because he kept his own mind
He was going to learn on his own time
She told him he didn’t want a family
He said he already left his mom behind

But one day he noticed his children
That was the reason for living now
That old prayer was telling him how
He still dreamed of long flowing hair
But it’s love that his life won’t allow

It is not
to achieve things for their own sake
A continuous line
is the end to the means
To keep alive
what forgotten souls once felt
And not
the promises of kings and queens

To accept
who you are instead of judgment
To be unique
and a friend of uniqueness
A shoulder to spare
and a tear to give away
And strength
to understand human weakness