A drawing of a superhero
Done by a fourth grader
Who’s father died in a fire.
He’s standing ten feet tall
With the wind blowing in his hair,
He’s got so many friends
And feels no despair.
All the happy people
They say they love him
And there’s nothing he can do
But just keep going.
But teacher asks a question
And he doesn’t know,
So all the children laugh
At the broken Superhero
To expel the outlines piled in my mind on paper,
With a light pencil in one hand,
And slice of rubber in the other,
I parent an impression of hope.
Therein lies the potential and the excitement;
A basic figure given the foundation of grandeur,
Amplifying in complexity before me,
With every scratch of graphite.
As it evolves, a heaviness sets in.
And I pause,
And I stop...
I've given something beautiful a half life, again,
As if it was birthed human,
With no flesh to cover its nerves,
And no breath to cry out its agony.
It remains still in my lap,
Eyes blank as ever staring, maybe, at me .
Out of humility, I tack it up on the wall,
A space shared by its many siblings.
I retreat shamefully with the promise to complete them,
Fumbling with the reality of what I do;
Playing God, I shape the husk of a soul,
And drop it when it's still brittle.
I can draw different pictures ,but From where should I start ? I can draw with a pencil As a reminder that I can do something ... I can draw pictures ,but In my mind this time ... I can draw with my eyes ,but Through different sights ... My drawings vary from One thing to another ...
I thought I forgot you
I thought I long had you buried
Deep in my memory.
I thought you could no longer haunt me
Like you used to do so often.
I thought I got over you
Until your eyes met mine today,
Once or twice at most and that was about it.
I couldn't look at you,
I couldn't look at you without bursting into tears,
So I burst into laughter instead.
And I suppose that you saw through my fake act.
You were there in your corner,
There in your pedestal,
There in your elegance
Drawing something dangerously beautiful
And you were beautifully dangerous.
I could only watch you from a distance
And learn to admire you
Without touching you,
Without kissing you,
Or fucking you.
We exchanged a conversation
About random things
You know, like
How it took me about an hour
To take a proper picture of the cat you gave me,
How it tragically died,
How I didn't cry when it died...
But I actually did cry when it died...
You looked all right, seriously.
There in your peaceful world
That I no longer was part of.
There in your artistic mind,
There in your capacity to forget,
There in your tendency to break promises,
There in the awful effect you always have on me.
So you said goodbye
Because you had something to go back to.
I said goodbye
Even though I had nothing to go back to.
We parted ways once again,
Me with your drawing pencil in my bag
And you, you my dear, with a piece of me
Inside your pocket.
I remember you once said forever, but you only lied.
I went home,
I went home and cried.
I started drawing when I was nine years old
I drew a picture of a cigarette holding my dad
I drew my friend Jimmy with his third nipple
I drew a picture of this kid Randall who had two nipples but no friends
When I was eleven I drew a comic
of this girl Michelle
stopping crime just by being pretty
she giggled in a bad way at me
but when her friends weren't looking
she squeezed my hand
and I drew a ten pictures of hands that day
I wanted to draw it so you could tell the person with the hand was smiling
without giving myself away
when I was thirteen I drew four hospital beds
and I drew each of my family members in one
and then I drew their coffins as statues
When I was sixteen
I drew Chicago
in the shape of a dollar bill
I drew love as a CD in a locked freezer
I drew God as a people-colored crayon
and Earth was the paper
when I was sixteen
I drew my nine year old self with
God in a coffin
buried with a crayon
like people are buried with crosses
Of recent stories, i’m told our moon was the largest. i denied fact as truth, as is so often used. i wrote a report filled with errors only a universe could make and killed time for old time’s sake.
but the buried limousines have somehow grown into trees where crows drink wine, and talk of future times where their only worry will be which way to glide to empty their minds.
but talking to the doctor today, he was convinced of impeding biological holocaust - where bodies pile up as your vision is lost - and all along you were the fastest crook, spending money like time, and quicker than you took it.
my vagrancy knows of great discord, the kind my mind mutates into a reward but the last vision of a dead knights sword is the exterior of the universe after all our inner wars.
vapors collide in one last goodbye of both our love and time. i breathe your lips for one last eclipse and forget all the reasons why. we’ll meet again, on the run - towards the sun, but not with everyone.
my mind goes blank
with every breath of mine
that you take
When I was younger,
I wanted to be an artist.
I aspired to be someone
who made a difference,
Picaso or Vincent Van Gogh.
Someone who was remembered.
So like every little kid who has a dream,
I pursued it.
Saving up all the allowence I earned
In just 3 weeks
I had a total of $12.80.
Enough to fund the dream of a child.
I loved drawing.
From the minute I picked up my
I knew my dream was going to come true;
Even if it started with doodles...
of flowers and stick people.
So eventually I grew up and I gave up that dream
of being an artist that makes a difference.
I gave up,
because I couldn't master drawing the perfect person.
I couldn't draw
how the persons eyes shinned when they saw the love of their life,
I couldn't capture
the beauty in the young girls smile
as she ran through the field of daisys towards her father,
who was coming home from war.
I realized that you can't capture the beauty and the memories
that someone holds
with a dream and a $2.50 pencil.
drawing // a.s.
It's been a long time
but the ink scrawls & lines all fall into place
glimpse into urban dreams
somewhere in the past
a typewriter sounds
someone is writing
which will never
in a land
soon to be bombs & flame
meanwhile my lines
make out the city of my dreams
have you seen a drawing,
bold, that hits your heart,
licks and smudges
make the picture
of a man.
yet look sideways, it may
be you, or her, each day
there is something different
in the mirror.
each way, drawing you in.
it is framed. as are you now.
there is no photograph.
I am sitting on the curb of no where..
Adults told me never hang around.
I am on the edge of meditation.
I am viewing the scenery of my fate.
I can't see the sky from the trash.
The metal-cans beating up the wind.
Oh the strains living up to impossible.
My torment shining in a dirty puddle.
This shouldn't be the price of dreams.
I see the reflection of a spectacle.
The mud needed a place to express itself.
The world needed someone to laugh at.
I hear their engines exploding with humor.
Two drawings are decaying in my lap.
This spaniel is a Blondie snarling into temper.
I bet you are glad she is just on paper.
The lion is so inviting like Samson.
Shave his beard for fun and
forget my self-esteem in question.
Paper attempts to protect him from abuse.
My dreams lost in the attic of my mind.
My dreams will be discovered someday
When I am not looking for them.