On a day in Spain here to find Gris
itinerated light exhibit met collage;
he'd wind my heart to much surprise
and shape these eyes an ingenue,
while these paintings would graft Picasso
and his style in cubism grew
today arbor inside museum found.

Maybe grey or dark,
I'm needed to complete your portrait....

Pious old man
Reading the Quran
Always watching skies
For non existing storms

His daughter, my aunt
Silent like a pond
Longing for her child
Sitting next to her

Her husband, a martyr
Captured in a frame
But surely his soul
Floats somewhere around

Their daughter, a mum
Peaceful like a dove
A physician in love
With some plants and seeds

Her daughter, a child
Curly nasty hair
Annoying as hell
Innocent as dawn

Her son, a school boy
Hungry like a crowd
Surrounded by books
Distracted by clouds


And me.
                   *(doing poetry)

Sliced clean
The death of a being
The birth of me
Clean and bleak
Used and bold

White and fiber rich
A landscape
A face
Flowers free
What will it be?

A gloomy face
A glowing city
Infinite possibilities

Etching into me
Swirly, loopy, straight, and wavy
Magnificent lines
Leaping from white
A new power
Endless expression

Unleashed power roams free
Forever on me
I am but one
Piece of paper

his eyes are one of my favorite things about him.
but i can never draw him, much more his eyes.
not even when i try.
i can never capture the way his eyes glow
as soft as a little star when he smiles softly,
or as bright as the sun when he beams.

i can never copy the intensity of his gaze
without my pencil lead breaking or my hand tensely shaking,
in fear of giving injustice to such opened and clear windows
to his beautiful soul.

i can never shade enough to give it the depth similar to reality.
i can never bring out the emotion of his eyes
with my pencils
like the way he does with his heart.
i can never draw the flutter of his eyelids,
the curls of his lashes,
the color of his irises,
or the void of his pupils,
all of which i get entranced and ****** into the blackhole of his soul.

i can never draw him in the simplest way:
his eyes staring at me.
because i can never look into his eyes
or lock gazes with him--
not even with a still portrait.

My external self is merely my emotional vulnerabilities conditioned to be stoic and ridiculous until its formed itself into a tough callous, only bleeding in the most hostile of circumstances.
Outside extreme,
inside serene,
not sure what was lost in between.
If i say to fix something,its because there is something i broke and never fixed and don't wish the same on you.
If i laugh at your shortcomings,
its not because i think it's funny but because vulnerability makes me ******* UNCOMFORTABLE.

I want you to know that when I push you away,
I'm hoping you'll care enough to pull me closer.
If you see me cry,
though I'll never ask you to,
please sit next to me because whatever was able to break me down must have been profound.

There's a calmness inside of me,
a kind of bliss that turns to chaos when i try to express it.
So if I tell you that you're beautiful,
savor it because it means that I felt so strongly about it,
my serenity was able to overpower my insecurity and inhibitions and reach the surface of my lips.
I may seem spastic on the outside but my peace of mind is real, its there, and it's fighting to make itself known.

Watery hands
Dripping from my own
Before the mirror.
Juggling with the unseen
Parts of me.

Portraits of the dearest ones
Long dead and gone
They're zooming out
I am zoning out.


--Eleanor Rigby