Close your eyes
Take a deep breathe
Go deep in your mind
Now open to see.

Is it really just a fogged up world you're caught believing?
Or is it the a fantasy dream?
You tell me Mr. Wonka.
You will won't ya?

Are the paintings alive or are the buildings full of working lines.
Has it just been me to see the world so differently?
Oh me, oh my!
No wonder you look so lifeless, my guy.

Tell me do you dream, of things?
You know the dreams that had a stream
Leading
To a tower,
A ship,
Or even a distant devourer
that you would conquer
And be praise for taking down such power?

It's time to case you up,
Til our new look  and ask of the same.
To which we will be tested,
Are you still there?
Or did they lock you behind the stairs?

Write until the chapter ends
Kick it into overdrive

Let your complex thoughts spill onto the blank paper before you
Let your ideas float and wonder
Let your imagination run wild

Spill the ink

Make a canvas with the black ink
Make a sculpture with your words
Make something that's captivating and bold

That screams pain
Screams power and passion

Let it out
Let it roar

Let your hand ache
Let your heart ache

Spill until you run short
Spill until your brain says enough is enough

Create art
Create originality
Create memories

We are not maps
leading to defects
or voices made of silence

Our color is not period
Our emotions are not a pinwheel

We have the womb
that creates generations

We are your creators
We are human
We are WOMAN

Paint in acid
scream into static
through perceptions pallid
with desires archaic and elastic.
It doesn’t really matter
who lies at the other end of the ampersand
smoke and mirror shatter
grinding from glass into sand
yet here we stand
malleable and plastic
underhand
and egocentric
hallowed by introspection.
Our shadows long lost in the tide
with the whispers of deviation
I guess, I shouldn’t have lied
but you were my only means of abstraction.
Now,
we’re just timelessly out of fashion
now,
we’re recoiling from the passion
that was once instilled
visceral
riled
so sweetly sacramental.

I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.