She is not just an empty canvas for you to fill up your filthy art
She is not just an empty canvas for you to flow out your dark desires in red seduction
She is not just an empty canvas for you to write out your ***** poetry in paint
She is not just an empty canvas for you to colour her in pink and purple that are made up of your lies
She is not just an empty canvas for you to throw out your anger in chili red and orange like fire

Hawak ko ang tintang bilang ang kulay
Pero di pa ganoon kabihasa,
Di gaya Mo.

Posibleng maiguhit ko ang langit
Pero paiba-iba ang istilo nito
Nagbabagong bihis ang ulap
Pagkat hinihihipan siya ng hangin.

Kukuha ako ng litrato
Para lamang makuha ang detalyadong anyo
At saka ko titingnang muli
Unang tingin, pangalawa, pangatlo
Ako'y nabibighani.

Maaaring magaya ko ang mukha
Pero pag ako'y titingala't sisilip
Hindi rin pala magtatagpo sa iginuhit.

Itatapon ko ang lahat
Maging mga mamahaling kagamitan
Pagkat hindi abot-langit
Itong istilong tila pangmakasarili
Hindi pasado sa panlasa ****
Panglangit din ang batayan.

Ako'y bilib Sayo
Pagkat sa pagsuyod ng panaho'y
Hindi Mo nauulit ang larawan ng langit
Panibago araw-araw,
Mula ulo hanggang paa nito.
Walang kupas, walang katulad
Gaya Mo, Eksperto sa Larangan ng Sining.

Ako'y mapaluluhod, sasayad sa lupa
Ihahain ang palad
Hanggang sa kalyo na ang mga ito
Pagkat ginagamit Mo na,
Gamit na gamit Mo.

Hindi Ka napapagod sa paghalo ng kulay
May lungkot at saya ang timpla
Pahiwatig mo'y ganyan ang buhay,
Pabagu-bago ang, Ikaw lang hindi.
At markado Mo ang araw,
Saulado Mo ang lahat,
Pagkat Ikaw ang Tagalikha
Oo, Ikaw, Ama.

Gusto kong magmana Sayo,
Sa guhit **** hindi ko makuha-kuha,
Sa istilo **** walang katulad,
Pagkat iba ang Iyong paningin,
Iba ang pag kumilos ang Iyong mga kamay,
Lahat kayang hulmahin, lahat kayang baguhin.
At ako'y isang hanging bula,
Maglalaho't liliparin ng bukas,
Bagkus ang bukas ay habambuhay Sayo,
Salamat sa matamis na kahapon, ngayon at bukas.

I saw your eyes that day
so focused, so pure, and so much passion
At that very moment
I thought I heard a heartbeat
beating... beating...
drawing closer to mine

and as you stroke that paint brush,
as you breath in a silent way
I can hear nothing but
the beat of your loving heart
beating... beating...
same time with mine

The wind blows my hair
and the yellowish street light
glaze upon your eyes
and I can't stop myself
looking at you, looking at
those sparkling brown eyes

Since then I always wanted
to see you, be near you
hear you, and to talk to you
wondering if you could be mine?
Then one day... you told me
a joke that I can't ever forget...



"kim, I have something to tell you..."



"I love you,... can you be mine?..."

Today I bought a square plate
it's not for me, but for an enemy
that I could do worse things to, if I was a less noble person
as the things they've done I will not speak.

The plate is porcelain and quite finely made
elegant and excellently finished for how not so pricey it was
hints of history seems to hide in it's shell--
as seams are weaved into
what has probably lived a long and unused existence
this handcrafted masterpiece.

Separately painted by some fancy artist
to whom I do not recognize the name of,
although it is said he may have done something wrought with his ear
or did this man's uncle make this plate, oh well, I am unsure.

It is these very details to why,
I am now in possession of this piece of the past
that will be priceless to those who know more craftsmanship,
at least more knowledgeable than the man who sold it to me.

From the gleaming in your eyes
I can tell this plate may even mean a great deal to you
is this true my good friend?
oh well, I guess I can give the plate to you
instead of the devil I spoke of before.

*As I handed my prize to them
it began to feel heavier than any ordinary plate should,
gravity granted the greatest reprise I've ever sought
as the demon's face whelmed with depression
and mine satisfaction--
for being such a convincing storyteller.

My mother said to me, 'If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope.' Instead, I was a painter, and became Picasso.

Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****…
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!

I told her to be my canvas
As I can become the painter
I want to show her how we can work together
Like two people who build forever
I told her to become my muse so I can paint my future onto her rich melanin
Until the tempera soaks into her veins
But she told me it was bad timing
So I figured I would paint her into the right time
Creating a portrait that will be the depiction of her perfection
But then I wondered,
Why does a beautiful work of art continue to live alone
Just trying to understand why she hasn’t been taken
Why hasn't someone invested their life savings into her
It’s as though she was placed in the finest museum
But her radiance is overlooked because of its tainted history
Her canvas is ripped and torn with bruises and scars
Telling me how rough of a past she's had
She cotton and linen is ripped
And her soul is broken
Her paint is smeared upon her face like tear dops
Yet I still find myself staring at her colors
Only wishing she knew how much I did not overlook her
Instead I looked past the rejection and visualized a painting whose core has been damaged one too times
Now I realize it'll take a lot more than weak compliments and mediocre conversation to dig into her deep chromatic tint
What she needs
Is a man who is bold enough to recreate the glow she thinks she no longer has
To repaint the damaged acrylic that was smeared across her heart
I would drown myself into each delicate stroke if it meant I could recreate her
Staring for hours just trying to understand what was originally used to paint her
If only she could see the red paint that bleed from the bristles of my hands attempting to paint a portrait of us together
If only she knew how florescent her smile lightens up my canvas
Even on the days where the lack of creativity suffocates me
She flourishes each painting
She gives it life, she gives me life
She is my muse
My highest source of creativity
And if only I could someday sit her down
And explain to her
That I only want to use this tempera to create you into my cover girl
Because no girl contains the beautiful pigments that have been stained upon your skin
It’s like angels used the clouds as a canvas
Attempting to paint an image that contains the both of us in one setting
And maybe that will be convincing enough to prove to her
That her eyes hypnotize me with a cosmetic chromatic kaleidoscope from each flip of my paintbrush
But I only wish she knew
That there's just something about the art I think we could create

I missed you today and the smell of emulsion.
******* like it's a full on compulsion.
Safety pin, pen knife, beard long and grey.
Swearing at the hammers. "I'm just a lodger here" you'd say.
When the weather's damp your big toe gives you trouble.
When the weather's dry, you're on stage singing bubbles.
Overalls, dust sheets, sudoku and crosswords.
If the traffic is bad, you'll hear a few cross words.
That's just today, but as sure as I exist
Every day I wake up is a day you are missed.