i feel like a shredded jigsaw puzzle
the unsolvable rubik's cube
abstract art by the picasso of melancholy
who couldnt find a way out of his blue period
melted ice cream sundae and cherry
sitting forgotten rotting on hot summer concrete

the common man of the cubicle
would eat people like me for dinner
and he would enjoy it too with his
overly happy son and his
overly happy wife and his
overly happy purebred golden trophy dog
i sit at the middle of the table
the eye of attention and
stuffed by an apple to keep me shut and
they stare at me ready to tear me apart and
for dressing tonight they will eat my tears

cover me in blankets and lay me down in bed
i will slip away for the night and
in the morning hopefully
i will be a step closer to completed

The time I first saw Picasso's Blind Man;
there was a loneliness I was unaware
that color, alone, could produce.
Picasso lost his friend & his home,
& I understood why
he mourned for years, in Cobalt blue.

My Mother has kept my Father's last name
for longer than she's known her own.
My father has forgotten who he is so
they hardly speak anymore.
She still carries his torch even knowing
that he may never come home.

I climb the mountains to forget how much
I hate this city.
I watch them from below when I just
want to admire true beauty.
From the bottom, so sacred & somber,
they resemble an elephant sleeping,
surrounded by wild flowers
ready to return home.

Holding a crayon with those petite fingers
Yet to discover colours and their hues
A gentle stroke and some hard
In circles, lines and what not
Every scribble seems like a masterpiece
When you are the artist

As the story goes, Picasso was walking though the market one day when a woman spotted him. She stopped the artist, pulled out a piece of paper and said, “Mr. Picasso, I am a fan of your work. Please, could you do a little drawing for me?”

Picasso smiled and quickly drew a small, but beautiful piece of art on the paper. Then, he handed the paper back to her saying, “That will be one million dollars.”

“But Mr. Picasso,” the woman said. “It only took you thirty seconds to draw this little masterpiece.”

“My good woman,” Picasso said, “It took me thirty years to draw that masterpiece in thirty seconds.”

creased, bruised, and probably a bit cracked
she was bent, in and out of shape so many times her feelings were far too familiar with contortion
but she was whole
a parodox, she was.
if you asked her what she loved she would probably tell you she was unaware of the word
but her veins told a different story, they mapped passages and roads, broken bridges and rigid ropes intertwining
and at every end there were images, memories you could touch and tug that would make her eyes sparkle
but you'd never guess it
see, most days she tends to act like her morning coffee,
dark and bitter
and I bet if you tried to count her eyelashes as she'd fall asleep you'd lose count and fall unconscious due to her surrounding force
she probably doesn't know this
but she is art
she always has been.
not the written or the spoken kind
but the kind that's hung up on a wall, highly overpriced and rarely understood
her edges were sharp
but she had no frame
she was art,
and I didn't need Picasso's signature to know that.

“Art washes away,
from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
No more pain, stress or strife.
“Have no fear of perfection,
you'll never reach it.”
So don't ever throw a fit.
“I saw the angel in the marble,
and carved until I set him free."
Amazed by what beauty could come from me.
"Art is not a thing;
it is a way."
So carpe diem... seize the day.

I remember my primary school
which was all large hallways and shiny shoes

library
which was all popsicle stick projects
and a round reading room

after hours and finding a book about art.

I showed it to Mrs Romano
who was fat in a pleasant way and wore round glasses

and she said “Picasso?”
and
i said
"yes."

I like, can't even

So annoyed like
#bye

I want to die
but I haven't even tried coke