art

Essence of Art

Poets aren't musicians who can't sing,

Poets are artists who don't need to sing,

They weave words into pages,

Like ice into sculptures.

Words may capture your soul,

Or they may destroy it.

For tell me, if a poem captures your soul

And so does music

Would too much paint not ruin the painting?

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Picking Where To Make My Art??

Folder: 
Depression/sadness

Picking a spot on my body

to make my cuts today.

 

There are so many 

places I can choose from,

so many places that I've already cut on.

 

 

Maybe I'll cut on my hand,

maybe on my palm.

 

Maybe on my wrist,

maybe on my arm.

 

Maybe on my stomach,

maybe on my waistline.

 

Maybe on my thigh,

maybe on my legs.

 

Maybe on my ankle, 

maybe on the insides of my thighs....

 

Maybe where my underwear can cover,

 

hell, It's not like I haven't cut there before...

 

 

There are so many places

on my body

that I can take a blade to

and draw my art.

 

One cut here,

another cut there...

 

maybe a big one here,

and a small one there.

 

Cut, cut, cut, cut

my head screams to me,

my hands beg of me,

my blade calls to me.

 

 

I'm picking a place on 

my body,

a spot to make a new cut,

a new piece of art...

 

Where will I pick today?

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The Title is a rough draft... I'm not totally sure about it... Any ideas would be much appreciated!

 

Let me know what you think about it!

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Artistically Moved

 

 

My palette is many.

The stroke of a brush,

A pencil,

The tongue…

 

No matter how I show you,

My experiences speak on their own.

They display my emotions,

My thoughts,

 

And everything in my being.

Everything that I am

Can be shown in numerous ways.

Artistically inclined, you ask?

 

I feel that I’m artistically moved.

I am moved through different mediums,

Different forces.

Whether it be a canvas,

 

In a journal,

Or lyrics in a song…another language…

I show you who I am and what I feel.


Asfor me, my experiences speak for me

And my hands have no control,

But to display the inner depths of my thoughts,


Interpretations, and feeligns. 

Whether it be through words or images.

They come out the way they see fit.


Artistically moved I speak.

Artistically moved I sing.

Artistically moved I paint,


I draw

I write

I express


Myself


EC

April 7, 2014

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm an artist. I create many things through many different kinds of medias. I say medium because I feel they are different forces that display themselves artistically. Yes, I love what I do, and I'll never stop doing it. 

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The essentiality of maintaining belief in art

I believe in dream catchers

          fortune tellers

                       shooting stars

                       body piercings

         colored hair

and tattoos over scars.

Finger paintings

          water colors

                      I believe in art,

          cause too much uniformity

will tear our world apart.

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My grandfather´s paintings

My Grandfather´s Paintings


 

Every time we go to my grandfather´s house there they are, all around the place, in every single wall decorating and lighting the house up. I walk down the long hallways, and anywhere that I turn around I can see another beautiful creation. Yes, I am talking about my grandfather´s amazing paintings. You can go into his house every day and you will see a painting that you have never seen before, and that it is even better than the old ones. I just can´t believe how his imagination can take him to so many places and make such beautiful paintings. Almost every time that we go visit him we can see how every single day, hot or cold, sunny or rainy, he sits down in his small white walled office and just paints, paints and paints. There are brushes all over the place; paint splashed on the desk, on the wall and even on the floor, but further from that, there is a masterpiece lying on his desk. My grandfather is not actually a painter, no, he´s an architect, but as soon as he retired he couldn´t leave his passion for drawing, and so he decided to begin painting. Everything in the house is like a timeline, all the paintings organized from the oldest to the newest, from black and white to colorful and full of joy. It all begins at the front door, as soon as you take the first step inside the house the adventure begins. First you can see a complete golf course painted hole by hole, and then you can see a complete and amazing set of beautiful flowers, and further on comes his latest and biggest creation, all of the little towns from the city that he lives in. This last creation was so big that it had to be taken to somewhere else, the white walls of his house just were not enough. So my grandfather took the next big step, he decided to take all his small town paintings and open an art exposition in the city of those towns. So now, you are not just dazzled when you enter the house, you are also amazed when you visit this exposition. The exposition is composed by more than seventy-five paintings and believe it or not he is still working on it. Every weekend he goes and visits a new town, he takes a mental picture of the place, goes back to his house and begins to reproduce it on the paper. My grandfather is really an old man and he has been through a lot of things, losing his wife for instance, but nothing has made him lose his passion and he has always kept strong. 

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suddenly

suddenly you're this person, this 'adult'

and suddenly you're talking to younger persons

the way you remember grown-ups

talking to you when you were a kid

and it's all happening so fast

and it's all so scary and unknown

 

and suddenly you feel proud about your job

(even though it's nothing like you ever imagined)

even though the unfulfilled dreams of

what you originally 'wanted' to do

is all that fills your sleepy head at night

and sometimes you have nightmares

about never doing anything good

or artistic or honest

but they leave your mind as soon as you wake up

 

and sometimes suddenly you wonder what you're doing here

why are you setting an alarm

why are you checking your email

why are you dressing up for that meeting

why are you mixing too much sugar into your coffee

 

this isn't 'it'

this isn't anything

 

sometimes suddenly you remember those nightmares

sometimes all the caffiene you consume leaves you nauseous

sometimes you get sad and it makes no sense

to anyone else but you

 

and you want to run

and maybe hide

mostly just so the nightmares will stop

but also because you know you have

something to contribute

but you just

don't know what it is yet

Playwright

Speech can be a masterpiece of artistic creation,

Elegant calligraphy, decorated with the odd heart-flutter flourish,

Fingers working, dancing, pounding on ivory keys, 

The smoke from a handsome mouth drifting through mahogany halls

As though from a fired gun. Dust settling after an earthquake. 

 

I cast myself in my plays, 

Too immersed to retract from the action, 

Too selfish to watch another fertilise the seeds, 

Too inflated to see my words applauded to another, 

"That's the theatre!" "That's life!"

 

People care little for Mona herself, 

Only for her master, his talent unbound. 

We praise not sunflowers, but their gardener insane. 

Shakespeare was lucky, the devil of devices, 

But the new world has eyes, not ears. Not brains!

 

I cannot see the target but for dazzling light, 

Heat and heart working furiously to fuel those pretty-penned words, 

I'm dashing or thrashing, whichever is box-office smashing, 

The multi-skilled wonder man of paper-in-hand, 

I love the stage and I love my plays, 

In most, I play the devil.

Untitled Repose

Folder: 
Second

 

Untitled Repose

Because I am an emotional man,                                                                                                                                                                 Who has it in his head that emotions are irrational,                                                                                                                                     And whom in the absurdity of this misery,                                                                                                                                              Prefers to hold the hand of these abstractions,

 

So then as my pen touches down on paper,                                                                                                                                                      I am made whole and then released to roam.


Thus it is to be,                                                                                                                                                                                             That the young and growing poets dream,                                                                                                                                                                  Is ever to remain alive in the hungry heart,                                                                                                                                                     Of said endless illusion.

 

 

On the whiteness of this page,                                                                                                                                                                      Past the singular threads bleached black,

 

 

Lays the grunt of the imagination grazing on the plane of our reality,

And in this native hue of resolution,

~Like Others Past~

I am none the less:

 

 

“Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought’’

And all my sins remembered,

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This maybe the only one I post in this folder, I'll store the rest. Perhaps next summer I will get around to posting them.

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December Sky

When the bitter December air blows and the girl

screams on the street corner, a Christmas list of dreams and demands

in her unrelenting grip, a bit homesick, though she is young,

wishing her poppa hadn't drifted so far

from who he was when she was born.

 

When at school the boy had day dreamed of staying home

and keeping the door closed--

now amidst his mother's disillusioned cries to be understood

and the solace of the radio in his room,

he imagines himself singing "Blue Christmas" like Elvis

and impressing all the kids at school.

 

When the young woman pulls a tray of chocolate chip cookies

from the oven and turns on the television,

wishing there was someone there to share them

and so she opens the window and smells the night,

the snow approaching with the wind from beyond the moonlight.

 

And the young man strikes the guitar strings with fingers

cold to the bone, a tragic tale sung in every note

but his heart beats warmly and echoes up the street

along the cool walls of every home

in search of something kind

 

underneath the December sky.