The clock is the eyes, the heart is the bell.
Grandfather sits by my side with a story to tell.
Back in the day, there was a painter,
But he could only draw poor abstract pictures.
But in time he learned to draw better.
Still life, became real life & he became a realist.
But the day came, when he saw a woman
He wanted to draw,
But there was more than met the eye about her.
He started to daydream
And saw her in a realm
That he couldn’t believe was real.
Walls lined with love seats,
A chandelier draping from the ceiling,
& a fireplace roaring and waving in 3D.    
This once realist became a hopeless romantic,
And started writing poetry to cope with it,
But it only strengthened his condition.
He became so desperate, he took the first step,
And introduced himself to her.
He had many strikes and many home runs.
He got to the world series, & married her.
As the story ended,
I woke up seeing my grandfather’s eyes in the clock,
And hearing his heart in the bell.
The bird in his mouth went back in
& never came back out.
I understood what the story was all about
& how I could apply it in my life right now.  
Speak to the woman of my dreams
& make it to the world series, stop chickening out.
July 5.2017

Random poem.
What made reading this worthwhile for you??
Porto Jul 4

When I draw you
It's not as if I use lines
A dusty black to suggest you
My pencil doesn't touch the paper
Not really
I'm not really showing you to others
And I'm not pushing your face out
But just touching it,
Just feeling it once more
Through an extended wooden finger

I'm not here to tell you
Your nose could be prettier
Your eyes straighter
Your hair more flirtatious
I'm not here for them and
I'm barely here to draw
I just want to feel you, is
That so bad?

But you seem to lose me
As I bait graphite
And plunge it in after you
What the paper reflects, like water
You're warped and don't quite grip me
Though I'd pull you out
Like an arm to the drowning I'd be there
If you'd only let me
Gloomy, I retire for the day

I can only assume
While I leave and sleep away
You come out, like the moon at night
And stretch anxiously out
In darkness
And assured solitude
You look for me
And as I'm gone you
Are quite happy to
Put your hand out finally from what I looked in
And as I'm gone
Gently feel where I threw my pencil
Softly touch the dent in the table
Where my elbow leaned me in, desperate
You come out perhaps to trace my outline
In what I left for you
And maybe
Give sensing me some time
With an outstretched finger
And a hopeful mouth
Ready, waiting
Till we can speak again.

It snows outside.
The bell tolls.
The birds whisper.
The children sleep,
And the girl skips.

Her cheeks are a rosy red,
Her eyes are the sky.
Her hair is raven's feathers,
Ink spilling down her shoulders.
She wears a thin-knit shawl,
The color of bark
Her laugh is the wind,
Her smile is the hearth,
And her words are the soft snow falling.

A boy sits silently in the white,
A piece of charcoal in his grubby hands
He wraps a blanket around himself
And continues to draw over ice.
The girl stops in front of him,
Bends over to see what he is creating.
She smiles at him, then slips off her shawl
And pulls it down over his head.

It's beautiful, she tells him.
Thank you, he replies.
The girl sits down next to the boy
And he gives her part of his charcoal.

Porto Jun 14

It moved before my eyes
Expression bent into exposure
Angle stretched as if to lean in and
Thank me for creating it
Chalked hair ghostly in the wind
Pencilled grin pushing charcoal cheeks to the sky
Wry and simple, cleaning my image
As if I were so like that, so obvious
To it, but I was
It moved, I saw
And all this work was warranted

alan May 26

Driving in the car at night,
like a moth, I'm drawn to light.
Constantly press my pen to paper;
cannot play this any safer.

Wyatt May 14

I'm drawing myself out
on the paper for you all to see.
What can you make out of it?
Nothing? There's no surprise,
you know we're all a mess
scribbled down
on crumpled paper.

This mess is my life, the perfect illustration about an imperfect subject.
Emma Whittle Apr 17

She grabbed her faux leather messenger bag,
threw in 3 old band t-shirts, 3 pairs of underwear,
2 bras and a couple pairs of ripped skinny jeans, her Polaroid camera to take photographs of where she goes, a book, a journal to document her thoughts, a sketch pad, a package of Marlboro Red 100's, a lighter,  her iPod and some toiletries.  She didn't say anything, she just out and left. No note, no warning, nothing but her mess of a room.  She smiled at her room, her dream catcher, her poster-strewn walls, all of it.
And she slipped out of her window.  'Goodbye,' She thought to herself and started walking.  But what she didn't know was she had
just left her life and started a brand new one.  She was walking to the edge of oblivion.  She was shooting herself straight off a cliff,
off of the safety under her roof, the safety of her bed, the safety of everything she left behind.  All she had was that bag.  17 items. That was her life. 17 items to keep her safe, 17 items to live on for the rest of her time.  For the 3 years until she was 18.  Until she could show her face in public again until she could be seen.  But until then, she was alone.  She sparked her lighter and lit up a cigarette.  All alone with her bag and a package of cigarettes. She sat down on the curb by the bus stop and began to draw.  And that was that.  She was lost in her mind. Her mind had run farther than she had. Because after all,
                           ­                       here..

Have you ever just wanted to run away? No note, no warning of leave, just pack your things and leave your world to create your own. To taste the edge of oblivion.
Beau Scorgie Apr 12

It's funny,
being a writer.
Some days it's all
you want to do
but can't pull a word
through the fog
in your mind.

Or is that
just me?

Just write anyway
they say.
But some days
it feels foreign
to even hold
a pen.  

I don't quite know
how I got here.
To this day.
To the person I am.
With this mind
so dependent
on words,
on poetry,
on art.
As crucial to my wellbeing
as food,
as water,
as sleep.

No matter how much
I sleep,
I'm tired.

No matter how much
I eat,
or don't eat,
I'm self conscious.

No matter how much
I drink,
I should drink more.

No matter how much
I write,
I paint,
I draw,
I'm empty.
Never satiated.
Always grasping
and never reaching.
But for what?
I don't know.

I have this quirk
where I write words
in the air
with my finger
as I say them,
think them,
read them.
and unconsciously.

I don't quite know
how it got there
but it feels right
and necessary.
Like when I
double check,
or triple check,
the light switches.

If I don't eat,
or sleep,
science says
I'll die.

Well I haven't
tested that theory,
but I do know
that without words,
without art,
I'll burn.

And that sounds
an awful lot
like dying
to me.

So I'll write,
I'll paint,
I'll draw,
like a morning
cup of coffee,
and a 7am alarm
before I burn.

Free writing
Beau Scorgie Apr 9

A life model
stands bare at the core
of an easel mantle.
She wears her skin
like a flattering summer dress
and I wonder
if she even knows
she's naked.

I transfer her body
to paper
in a hundred charcoal swirls,
suspended evermore
in a breath of smoke.
My teacher says
my style suits me,
and I suspect he's right.

They're alive,
and full of vitality

he tells me,
comparing them to my other,
more refined drawings
and I feel myself
wanting to cry.

I try
to refine my life,
and myself,
as I do my models.
To be contoured
and controlled.
To be precise
and safe
as geometry.

I unfold beneath the frustration
of my clumsy form.

My hands cannot obey
to a command
my heart does not give.

But my heart commands acceptance,
and who am I to deny?
So I must abide,
and learn
to wear my messy heart
like a flattering summer dress
rippling in winters gale.

Sewing buttercups
into a storm.

Helena B Mar 17

I have tried to draw portraits of you
But my pen doesn't do you justice
You deserve to be craved from stone
You deserve to be permanent

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