She is not the reflection they painted,
nor the role they assigned.
She is the breath of the earth,
the roots and the bloom,
both soft and unyielding.
She carries worlds within her—
and owes nothing to anyone.

fear is an illusion that feels more real than life itself, at times. scores of artists have succumbed to the despair brought upon by the fear of overexposing themselves. you know them - the writers who won’t write - the painters who won’t paint - and the sculptors who won’t get their hands *****. maybe you’ve even met one or two. or know someone close to you who might be of a certain poignant disposition that’s impossible to ignore. if not, perhaps it’s time to have a closer look at the mirror.

it’s true that those who dare to traverse the forest of the unknown must encounter the beasts that lurk in the darkness. some are benign. some are malevolent. at first, you’re terrified of them all. but as you go farther and deeper into the forest, you soon realize that they’ve become some of your dearest friends, despite all the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other during your skirmishes. you learn to tame them, feed them, and eventually, cage them. yet after all this, the question, or rather, the fear remains - can you ever bring them out into the real world? and more importantly, what would they do to your mind if you do?

a scary thought for many artists, indeed.

but perhaps these ‘beasts’ may not be as bloodthirsty for our spirits as we might think. perhaps, it’s about how we personify them in our minds. there’s a beautiful poem by charles bukowski called ‘bluebird’ that speaks exactly of this fear, and perhaps even offers an antidote. it immortalises the little bird in the writer’s heart, a rather benign beast, that sings every now and then, unafraid, and in spite of what its captor might think, or feel, or do. it reminds us that it’s okay to let the bird sing every now and then - because it will - and not let it die so finally. it implores us to not sacrifice it at the altar of perfection, but rather be gentle with its humble feathers.  

something i believe we could all do with our own little bluebirds.

put down,
you put up.
spill your guts -  
left with the cleanup.
your head is ******,
but unbowed.
invictus, you shall rise -
any day now.

the trials of morrow
lay vast and grey
waiting too see
if you let them prey -
on your mind,
your body,
your spirit,
your rage.
stay average,
or usher the golden age.

wipe the sweat
off your brow.
take a step back
‘fore you take the prowl.
glory is nigh,
do not haste, nor disavow.  
hush little soldier,
any day now.

a thousand miseries,
and countless trials.
****** footprints tracking bygone miles.
for all the times you traded a smile;
it’ll all be worth it,
after a while.  

spend some time with the guy in the mirror
you both have come a long way together
sure, he’s got a different hairstyle;
give it time - it grows on you,
after a while.

find a way to live through the pain -
like you’re on a burning train,
headed for The Elysian Fields,
where psalms of valor forever reign.  

soon, you’ll be on the other side:
grateful for the moment you died,
so you could feast with the Gods,
if only for a while -
then back to grind,
after a while.

Old songs are like
A prayer; no matter the length
Of time.
No matter how long or short.
They dance.
They dance regardless of who's
Around & accept your invitation
Without you knowing.
Just when you forget.
They tap you on the shoulder &
Give you something to smile about.
Old songs are like a dancehall that scream
In silence and fill the empty with hope.
Regardless of how you felt before.
Old songs are like the remedy to the old
Person in your head who finally feels the urge
to dance again

Difficulties in your life do not come to destroy you or worse create a war within or between you and your life- they come to help you realize your hidden potential, your abilities, your capacity for great things; they come to meet you as prompts to connect you with yourself and begin to move deeply into the growth phase you are inherently and subconsciously needing.

Oh Pomegranate
please slice me into parts
without your
large  
blood dripping seeds
leave me to stay
dry on my skin
Give me the roles you’d never play

Your shape bends with gratitude
rolling toppling fluidity
staining my lips as
my teeth
smile lovingly
returning the call..

Holding the pinnacle
of your embrace

Your vulnerability
stays the same
you are the only thing
that can look at me
face to face
Subjugate your art and call it
A moral compass
tasting the fruit of its efforts

The stillness of your body
Overcomes the anxiety  
the kind of
one eye awakening
you find
when your head
leans back on the board
A sublime reminder of
My past with
Worth

The stem of your flowering core coterie was chosen
Cut
For rebirth
To re distinguish my soul
To enlighten my wholeness
with your awaited existence

It left me growing
On an open tree
Waiting to be picked

A powerful  
open light leading
to my highest self

A vision like yourself
Cut open and alive
Blood flowing
Block the mind

Where there was once division there is none
that could be present

I am strong
In the space delivered alive
The devouring of sweet certainties  
of what is seen in my new world

Created between me and thine:
The nature of the experience
Rising in relationship

Take time to know yourself
Find out about your life

Sit in the den and stay silent
Quiet.

You do not know
Who I am.

I am a Prophet he would say
And you’re mine

I'm all yours
But not whenever you want me
I'd reply

Taking dark selfies in a temple
Creepy rituals with the cult of the Tempili Orientis
Studying Bible names
His social script became mine
When I felt like I was losing my mind
a scripture
That repeats itself in mystic fables
Façades of King Solomon
persecuted by his existence

The script:

I take orders from pastors, aliens, angels, bible thumpers, avengers, excuses from sickness, while he spoke of the devil, talking for hours about ******* to thelema, bouts of depression
He was nowhere to be found.

Behind closed screen doors and
phone calls gone raw

The Elimination of Alive
Took over
Spoke of necrophilia
Casting spells by saying
‘that's hot’
“I miss you” but only ever saw me 1x3

To risk my need and call it yours
When you’re out $125, starving for a hit, no love or affection, beaten to a pulp, and emotionally marred
‘It’s hard to heal’

When his real fam goes by
A man named Sam
He would go with him everywhere
A false son
Playing the part

A spitting image of the dark
Left in a pool
of hypocrisy

This was nowhere.

Off the grid
Forever lost inside a universe
that fails so many.
Not everything can be saved.

He was born into modern day slavery
An absent mother and father
Trying so hard to make it
Money is all he wanted to make
And lost it with his words

Addiction
Tunnel vision
The drug is the delusion
that craves and prayers
Can’t afford

And yet how peculiar that I looked at everybody like they have 3 eyes blind
Feeling like I wanted to leave my body sometimes...

The lost souls out there
That got suckled in

She must know he said.


His script continued:

I am already gone
I had love somewhere  
but impossible to keep
I'm so expired

You're a clown
I told her

But when I look in the mirror
All I see is the loneliness of a dead man buying and selling a dream that can only be found
In a man who is not me.

Begging for bread
The last drop of
pink moscato burns the roof of my mouth

Hot chocolate
Ice cold
And my emotions
Buried in mould
for over a decade
I’m Schizotypal
When I speak to her

I say I miss her but these suicidal thoughts
of death still tempt me
That's why I need Angels to protect me

Projecting who I believe I am
A rich one Flaming
A Rosicrucian Cross on my chest
Throbbing panting for salvation

“I am in the middle of nowhere losing everything that could have ever made me”.  

He was other people.
And that is it’s own Hell