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Ella Gwen Sep 2016
There is so much screaming, a
mess of self-deceit flashing colours
around blinking eyes; we try always
not to let the light in.

Please, the night has fallen and
I cannot stop myself, these thoughts
of mine rise and plunder internal,
ripping pieces of machinery into
new formations, weapons

you smile at me and I take it as
an affront, you stay away and I
scream (please) I do not need you,
(please) I am only myself.

They sharpen inside and force their
way out, blood lying on my tongue
so I disgorge foul words and this
much maligned vanity.

Is it time to run you through the mangle
with me? We can flounder without falling,
but no purchase can be found for
our wandering feet.

No, I push you away and pull
myself asunder, but you do not
leave until I put the knife
to your neck.
jg Sep 2016
Here i am again without you

   I feel my skin and bones begging for your touch,

   I feel my veins and blood aching for your heat,

   my soul screaming for you to stay.
          
  Within each second you become blurrier

And the madness and insanity of my mind take over me; craving your lips and the sound of your heart beat,

Craving what we used to be.
Craving every little piece of you.
Beast of burden
Beast of brawn
Work work work
Toil till dawn

Silence your mind
You dont need it here
Zip your mouth, follow the line
Work work work
Until your time
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
Las Meninas

Dementia makes a great creator,
sacrifice your sanity for the greater splendor,
it’s interesting how insanity makes a great inventor,
all the greatest were/are/will be crazy now and forever,

just ask this to Francis Ford Coppola the director,
or bat ****t (no disrespect but pun intended) Christian bale the actor,
or Vincent van Gogh who cut his ear off all creative geniuses are tortured,
so I suppose Picasso's no different in his portraits of torment as a painter,

what a mad medium the Expressive Arts are,
as if every artistic creation is it’s own emotional provocateur,
a window to the soul of a lunatic lit by the light of the moon,
and shown through the manifestation of a painting in living color,

abstract dualities uncovered,
a crack in the cement of our foundation,
the wooden frame of our reality begins to splinter,
like window panes in the winter open to interpretation,

ascending,
up a spiral staircase into the attic of an artistic addicts mind,
find some time then misplace it,
then replace it with a twist of fate and sprig of thyme,

face it fate is what we face when we're outta excuses and out of time,

I’m,

writing words,
like oil painted on canvas,
in a race no one wins,
even those with the most advantage,

brush strokes,
art works,
we are all tainted,
just look,
at Picasso,
and all the pain he painted,

this is the ballad of the obscene lick the palette clean and get wasted,

drunk in love,
under the influence of,
colors of pastels and multi tones,
high off life,
we’ve got a show tonight,
but for now I write in verbose undertones,

at the Picasso Museum in Barcelona,
in an insane world only crazy love seems sensible,
with Jay and Beyonce they say the circles get smaller you go,
and we’re at the top of the pyramid circle so small it’s a point at the pinnacle,

paining portraits in our own ways,
some sing some dance some actually paint,
and I’m not the Devil that that accuse me of being,
but I’m also not exactly a patron saint,

paint,
a portrait of this torture,
name,
it ‘Maids of Honor',

create,
an entire series of misery and maybe it will be your zenith,
make,
Hell as beautiful as Heaven & then when it’s finished call it Las Meninas,

then release it all and they will call you a gothic prophet an artistic genius,

love the art,
but not the artist,
love the hate,
but not the haters,
love heart,
but not what it harbors,
love the work,
but not the workers,

people love,
what they’re told to love,
like people love Picasso,
because that’s what they’re told,

rarely is greatness recognized,
while the artist is still alive,
no one wants to take the time,
to truly appreciate and recognize,

and speaking of time I know I’m late,
but better late and I apologize for my lateness,
but a true creative type can’t be rushed or hushed,
so please if you want to receive you must have that virtue called patience,

life is the canvas passions the paint it’s time for action let us paint this…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Picasso Was Fckn Insane... ∆
SøułSurvivør Sep 2016
... the prophet is a fool,
the spiritual man is mad...
Hosea 9:7

The lyrics of this sacred song
Were not childlike scrawl
They were elegant cursive
Cultured and small
They were found by a Madman
On an Asylum wall
They were written of love
From the All in All:

Could we with ink the ocean fill
And were the skies of parchment made
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade

To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
Though stretched from sky to sky

Unknown


This poem was penned
By a deft, determined hand
No one knows to modern day
Was it writ by Angel? Man?
There is yet no doubt
It was part of God's great plan
And yet many do not see...

They still cannot understand.*


SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/17/2016
The Love of God
Attributed to
Reverend Benton Vespew Ellis

This part of that song was written on the wall of an asylum. The author is unknown.

Its almost 2:30 in the morning, and I have to get to sleep. This song just keeps playing in my mind. It is quite beautiful. There's a lovely rendition by MercyMe. You can view it on YouTube. God bless you all!

♡ Catherine
SøułSurvivør Sep 2016
struck by lightning
pushed by tides
insane and frightening
mooncalf hides

crazy gift
crazy glove
crazy quilt
push n shove
crazy craft
crazy in love


she's up at night
sleeps by day
mooncalf knows
no other way
tides are moving
off the bay
"Play Misty For Me"
and you play

chorus

she makes love
she has the art
she will tear
your world apart
if you let her
don't you start
in the end
she'll have your HEART

chorus


have you heard?
take my advice
don't come close
to her love's vice
don't you know
she has a knife
come too close


*she'll take your LIFE!
A nod to Clint Eastwood and Jessica Walter and the movie "Play Misty For Me"

An obsessed fan arranges a meeting with the DJ she's in love with. He's alienated from his girlfriend and sleeps with her. It's not until too late that he finds out the woman who's asking obsessively "Play Misty For Me" is a homicidal maniac.

Yes, this piece is a little dark. I have a dark side, too. I just happen to like this movie.

-
Grimmest Sep 2016
The stars begin to fall,
Through the darkness of my mind.
With quiet whispered calls,
Only chaos will they find.

Here colours swirl in time,
To the madness found within.
They start to flow and rhyme,
Until anxiety begins.

A crushing, pulsing weight,
Is baring down on me.
An overwhelming hate,
Of what has come to be.

I long for something more,
Then blackness and decay.
To find an open door,
And float my fears away.

My dreams are full of lies,
Full of vile thoughts that bleed.
They dance before my eyes,
And on my anger they do feed.

I wish for brighter days,
For a glow within my heart.
But this void forever stays,
And it tears my soul apart.

Pain is roaring in my skull,
Full of waves of raging fire.
It keeps my senses dull,
So my will begins to tire.

Exhausted from the fight,
From this battle in my mind.
I am lost without the light,
And my sanity unwinds.
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