of dark skin
of stomach flesh
of white sheets
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day
Or something less written and more expressed
To something less expressed and more instinct
To what the hopeful oil feels as it burns bright?
What atom makes you? What worker formed you?
What factory sent bone chalk, called it art
Without mentioning it is mere carbon
Tints and inks of filthy purpose, broken shells?
No, I won't compare thee to the words used
To call pomp, genius, hope and meaning
I can't use symbols, smudges have more thought
In what you are, in what nature hopes of you
Only the woven mist can explain clouds
As only the pencil can explain you
His messy hands make magic pencil
Like holy Gods make worlds
And I know he will someday draw my universe--
All stars and no suns,
Always so far-- too far
My cold hands on his warm chest
Cold hands, warm heart
But my love keeps me warm
Warmer than goose-down coats and wool socks
So much static
So much friction
So many sparks--electricity, zapping
And I am patchwork-quilted memories in his creators' hands
On mirror, one morning,
What I saw, blew mind
Made me turn, look behind
There stood, with a knife
At the throat, of wife
Her screams, all could hear
My heart, burst with fear
With panic, in my chest
Took swing, for the best
caught hard, in the face
Knife dropped, grasp, race
Me first, knife, mess
Him blood, life less
Wife safe, me shocked
Bathroom exit, door locked
goes through its life
caring about all the tiny details
but not about itself.
it degrades itself trying
to fix others mistakes
it knows it’s dying,
it know it,
and it doesn’t care.
it cares too much about other people
to care about itself.
Some people say an eraser
would be a model human.
If everyone was like an eraser,
if everyone cared about others
just a little too much,
how would life work?
People would degrade
just like the eraser,
an eraser plays an important role in art.
so it does.
you can care about other people,
not care about yourself.
do not be an eraser,
you need loved too.
This wall is for drawing
No writing allowed
No tags from the gangs
That wander this town
No poems, graffiti
Just sketching is all
Poorly drawn things are
Erased from this wall
The art of a child’s
An ugly scrawl
No verbal expression
Be glad you may draw
This wall shall become
A great work of art
But none of these drawings
Will come from the heart
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.
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
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
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
Give sensing me some time
With an outstretched finger
And a hopeful mouth
Till we can speak again.