The classic metal artist.
The man of sharpened tongue.
With each lick a picture,
He paints upon your canvas.

The rarely appreciated work of a little understood poet.
Painting poetry.
Though many would seek to emulate what one stroke of his brush may convey,
Only few possess the means to reproduce the sheer purity of emotion in every sweep, line and dot.
Many forgeries gain more applause,
Yet the painter allows them spotlight.
The man who paints in the shadows is rarely seen hanging in public halls.
Seeking not fame, fortune or acknowledgement.
He paints only for purpose.
Love the painter,  love the poet.
Though the man himself is flawed.
He will not cry for anyone, nor pray nor care nor wonder.
He does not put his brush away, after all.


Blood does paint the prettiest pictures.

i'm sad today.sundays
have a way of stretching my heart
til eternity's end
and back.
rubbed raw from the world's crying,
i felt alone in my pain.this dull ache
fills me with a kind of
e m p t i n e s s
that smothers my very breath,
that pulls me into a spiralling
        e n d l e s s
abyss.a kind of wasteland
littered with strange beasts
carved from anger and unhappiness
and dissatisfaction,
this place burns with deceit and hatred.
it's sewers putrid with the scent of
loneliness and sadness,
it's valley's stand tall built from
all of our imagined fears and worries.

and in the background i can hear a
ticking clock getting louder
with each tock.