As a minimalist, fearing art
Something so dear to my soul
My heart
The beauty, the expression
Became a material
And that, was not necessary

The pondering of question
"..Is this necessary"
Clouded and filled my canvas
The materials to paint with
The ink to write
Drowning again, it seems

Life free from attachment should liberate us
Not condemn us.
Not restrict us, though free us
Allowing us so much more, by having less

Art is necessary, even to the minamilist,
Of minimalist
Art is a tool of expression
Not an attatchement

I'm not attached to these paints anymore than
The clothes I wear
I feel just as much with these paintings on the wall
As I could if they weren't there

Minimalism is knowing that we still have
These memories, thoughts and emotions
Even when the objects aren't there to promote them

If I'm out of paints, I'll write in pen
If I'm out of paper, I'll go to the walls
If all else is gone, I'll sing the words

Free from attachment,
I still am able to enjoy these tools to use
And just as happily
Would give them to you

Materials do not truly give us anything,
And certainly should not take anything away, either

sleeping in the attic.
I allow the sensation,
the atmosphere to be formed and felt
No illusion of yours
creates the things I imagine and feel
on my own,
alone.

In this attic
some would say
the slanting ceilings
bring me down
But I,
would disagree.
which is why
I'm In the attic

I see the peek. The rising walls
Lifting me along with it
Though their opinions are not relevant,
So should be my choice of words.
but, because, though

I'm here.
I'm here because I chose to be
here.
choose to stay
The walls too close to echo
my thoughts.
too close to shout
Even the whispers are heard
in full volume

Maybe I rushed that one out.
let's take it back to,
the attic.

Not room for too much,
Just too little time to worry
about space for the things
You don't need.
don't use,
or don't have.
Only the things that belong
make it with you
When you live in a space,
like this

I'd cover the walls,
Though I don't like the metaphor
I'd wait until tomorrow
to address the issue,
Though I have no way of knowing
when tomorrow has arrived.
yet here i am.
Avoiding it anyway.

and I'm already hearing myself being talked,
and thought.
into only a space as small as these 4 uneven walls
allow.

to no surprise.
Only until I closed my eyes
did I see
The reason I'm here
In the attic.

99
Just can't roll a 1

eternal selfie

thick columns of smoke
                             i make storms from
                               the lips of my mouth