While Beauty LivesBeauty fades.
It is but an abstraction of reality
that lasts for a mere moment,
so lets live the ecstasy that is this artistic second in time
before it turns to sand
and fills the desert beneith our feet,
and drowns us in a sea of sensational dirt
whose colours once painted our world
A Perfect Pain You're my pain
But it's not what you would expect
You are perfect
The mere comparison of the two of us makes me question my existence
Your composure is so well put together
Every piece fits together like magic
The way you walk is something special
Your feet hit the floor with a grace that eludes my comprehension
your stride is held up by a confidence that's so..
It's as if the way you hold yourself can hold me up too when I feel as if i can't get to my feet
You are so developed
Not in the sense of body
But the way your soul has matured
Beauty, in all sense of the word is presence in your thoughts,
In your heart;
Sewn into the very fibre of who you are
Woven with the most beautifully coloured threads and laces
I can see the world in your eyes
As if there was nothing to fear
You're as secure as a safe
Your arms could wrap themselves
A guide to understanding artistsPlease read carefully:
Each sketch or doodle is important
So don't say the following:
"It's just a sketch. Can't I have it? You won't miss it!"
Or you will end up with freshly sharpened pencils up your ass
Artist get attached to things they create
Much like mothers and their babies
Remember that It's cruel to separate parents and children until the children are old enough to go out on their own
Until that day
DO NOT ask for art until it has matured and is ready to leave the nest
If you ask an artist to look through their sketchbook one of the three things will happen:
A) you will be given a stone cold glare, indicating how stupid the question really was
B) you will be allowed to peek at select number if sketches the artist seems qualified to be seen
C) you will be stabbed painfully in the eyes with a fork (or whatever else is in hands reach.
NEVER under any circumstance look through the said sketchbook WITHOUT PERMISSION
The Heart Necklace A child sits numbly at a table
the chairs across from him are empty.
Children race about around him
and he watches as their attention dashes through him.
He wears a heart necklace the red of a summer sunrise
and plays with it idly between his fingers. It can be split in two but it stays as one.
Someday, I'll find someone to wear this with me
He whispers, almost as if to console himself.
A teenager sits meekly at a table
the chairs across from him are empty.
Other teens text and chat with their friends
and he watches as one girl smiles at him with honey eyes.
He wears a heart necklace the red of his blushing face
and he plays with it idly between his fingers. It is split in two but both pieces are around his neck.
Someday, she may wear this with me
He whispers, almost lost in his shy giggles.
A man sits proudly at a table
the chair across from him sits a woman with honey eyes.
Anyone else w
The reason why I will not draw youArt is something that is almost indefinable. Essentially, it is something people created to express emotions and intellects. Art is something that goes beyond reality and opens our minds to the ideas of others.
Art is something everyone has been impacted by. Eve
The story of glassSo I saw her.
I saw her broken
and I saw the hollow glaze in her eyes
like the the world had sucked the life out of her.
they were a work of beauty
and they filled my heart with what they didn't posses.
She lay upon the floor as if in pieces
like broken glass.
I walked towards her and the glass she shed cut my feet
but my curiosity grew bold enough not to care about the red foot prints
that trailed my walk.
I slowly picked up her pieces and my hands were raw with cuts
and painted with the red of shimmering blood
but all I could feel was my heart throbbing
all I wanted was to try to piece this girl back together
and so I tried.
I really did.
But some pieces were too far gone
under my feet and beyond the repair I could give.
So I willingly filled those broken pieces with my own
So I could see the cracks in her soul disappear
and I grew weak
so I could see her grow strong.
And she did.
I put her togethe
To Burn a Prayer...To burn a prayer
into a newborn's gentle skin
is but a scar
that the hands of time will carve
And to stitch the word of The Lord
to a young man's heart
Will shed blood in broken thread.
A golden cross may belong around your neck
But it's my necklace of thorns
Twine too tight not to bleed
To be subservient to an ancient book
Is but the slave of an unproductive world
In the eyes of a child who's mind has wings
Of a different colour.
And perhaps a life that is right for you
Is not one a child would grow into.
I'm used to itI would have followed you off the earth just to see a smile
break the stone of an endless frown
But instead I was thrown off the end of the earth for but the crash was never as soft as a fragile smile
Maybe it hurt
But it doesn't matter
I'm used to it after all
For but if something is put into routine, why change it?
I would have given warmth to the snow as it gingerly pranced down from the heavens to touch your cheek
Just to see you dance in winter's blaze.
But instead you let me stumble into an inferno
that scorched my heart black.
It broke me
But why should it matter when
I'm used to it.
For you never knew the break was in the hands of your fault
So I was left without a bandage
I would have knit a sweater of the finest of wool
to keep the shine in your eyes warm and gold
But your craft would stitch a straight jacket from the rawest of straw
And leave me confused
Boys can hurt too...And he sat
In a place no one could find him.
Where the grasp of his peers could not pull him under
And the hot breath of his family couldn't raise the hairs on his neck.
He ripped at his hair with his fingers
As if to pull out the fear
The feeling he got that impaled his heart.
He wondered how his heart could have been poisoned so
When it was sealed behind the cage of his ribs
And locked with a key of reason.
Perhaps, instead of protecting his heart
He imprisoned it.
He let that cage rust alone
So no one could get in
He let the rust encase his hopeful soul
And he let the very will to not get hurt
Guard the prison he obliviously made
And his heart slowly died of neglect
It cracked, and became a broken masterpiece.
The permanent scars that slowly appeared
Was as if an open door to the things he feared
And they crawled inside and replaced everything he once loved
His heart was
Words Are Powerful ThingsYou’re so angry
You let words swarm up inside.
Screaming to get out.
They yell and shout.
They sit there,
Turning into horrid things that should never be even whispered,
In the softest tone.
You get so angry
Cause you’re so afraid.
Like so many other people
You let your fear burst into rage.
The monstrous words inside of you
Refuse to remain in their cages.
You let those words escape your lips,
All of the sudden you feel like your words have killed someone.
As you see their face.
Words are suddenly bullets.
They’ve pierced your victim’s heart.
Fragments of a once pretty, friendship scatter on the floor.
The pieces so broken, I doubt you could find all of the shards to make it whole again.
There’s a slamming of a door.
Whether that be real,
Or just a metaphor.
To say you’ve been locked out,
From this once dear friend of yours.
I hope one day.
You’ll find better words
To form a key.
So you can find your way back to them.
I am LostMy thoughts are orcas
Trapped in bathtubs.
Within microcosms -
Stuck, glued tight,
Melting like Dali's clock,
In a cock fight
With my conscience.
Sometimes I forget
All that regret
Burning through -
A pain so forever
That I hardly ever
Feel it anymore.
A cut so deep and quick
That it stops -
Time is static -
Before it bleeds.
Fluttering in the wind.
So much to see.
My heart is vacant,
My lungs made of lead
And both are my enemies
Because I'd rather be dead.
But no I wouldn't.
I'm fake, made of a paper -
A corporate rock whore -
And I don't know
What I stand for.
But maybe I don't have to
Stand for anything -
A word without a definition
Still leaves a mark
On pure paper.
A meaningless spark
Can still become a fire.
A tickle of love
Can still become desire.
untitledthere are a thousand
unwritten love letters in your eyes
now I keep thinking about
and the color green
all I know is that
my skull's been
warriors traversing well worn paths
boots leaving tracks across
chests and necks
and it's comfortable
it's not like drowning
more like slowly lowering
into hot bathwater
and we are just skin and cosmos
bodies and words
our tongues landlocked
we are adrift in
our own little sea
we've plucked our wings
and now we can't fly
tell me the truth
that the sky's overrated
I'd rather be with you
on the ground
or buried beneath it
skeletons entwined truthfully
I've always thought heaven was
a pretty sort of lie
but I've read a book or two
or people's idea of it
and I disagree with myself
popping thought balloons
on the idea that heaven
is in the way your eyes
fold origami swans when you smile
that shitty laugh
that hollow above your heart
like your chest's caving i
Happy Songs on the RadioI don't write about happy things.
I don't listen to songs about romance.
I can't feel what the artist is singing so passionately about.
The longing to know what it's like makes me want to scream and shout.
The way people write and lace words together,
About how happy and perfect they see the world.
Has always been a stranger to me.
I wish I could see,
The way you did.
I really do.
I wish I could feel the same way as you.
To be able to hear the lyrics,
'I love you'
And picture someone to match those three words.
I wish I could hear these songs,
About how everything is perfect.
Absolutely nothing is wrong.
But I can't.
I hear those songs and I feel empty.
Because I can't feel what they're saying.
And I keep listening,
But I am just wasting my time
Trying but failing to relate.
When I hear the songs on the radio.
They make me squirm in my seat.
I feel happy but sad.
Something so bitter sweet.
Because part of me feels so happy for the person.
Who sings so happily.
But another, darker half.
When the Sun RisesI miss the way you used to be.
I miss the way you'd smile at me.
How the joy would make the corners of your eyes crinkle.
You'd laugh softly.
Shaking your head,
I miss that.
How real it sounded.
I listened to you now,
And that old little light melody of laughter is no where to be found.
You still laugh
But your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes.
I don't think I've ever met someone with such sad,
As you look upon yourself
And you can't help but despise what you see.
You used to walk,
With your head held high.
You don't anymore
You keep them glued to the floor.
Scared to acknowledge your train wreck of a life
That lays before you.
I still think you're beautiful though.
Even if you're growing faint
Like a sunset,
Falling into the darkness of the night.
With each slowly fading ray of light.
You're still perfect, and make people stop and stare in awe.
But just like the sun sets.
And you get pulled under into the dark of the night.
When all of your light is gone
remember,when i was your lioness and
we ruled the world with
scattered light and
after all this time, i
still stay up late thinking of you,
pinching myself awake to keep the image of you in my head
until i hear you sing me to sleep.
we all have our demons, i was always yours.
waking up with bruises on my arms in an empty bed,
the devil inside of me whispers that it's not over yet, and
he pumps turbulence from my carved open heart into my saltwater blood
i feel every half-healed scar split op
en to bleed yet again.
wanting you is wanting the safety of the stars
when i'm already in free fall (into the grave).
my siren, i was born to die but you loved me into a phoenix.
The Irony Of PerfectionOne who does not possess the gem of perfection sees himself but of a shadow of someone that is more, but yet renders clueless the plague he ceases to see upon him, for his imperfections sculpt him into a masterpiece all his own. The irony of perfection is only seen by the one who created himself perfect, his excellence in every lift of his finger and blink of his eye to bore him as he gains no further in what he used to value, in what his passion used to be but his love to vanish surprisingly as he preformed flawlessly to no where. Perfection creates nothing but bordom to build slowly as a sour scab on his soul, realizing he can go nowhere else but infront of a halting stop sign. He sighs as he watches his shadow build himself into more and more each day, longing to become what he was as if the shadow himself while the shadow builds only to become the possessor, unaware that he will soon wish to be his own shadow someday.