Each layer uncovers
at the center,
finally to have chipped your teeth
the artist in a state of constant questioning (thought. end thought.)
piecing together parts of the soul. producing work of no significant value. other then the value to the self. self important work. work of meaninglessness. meaning imbedded behind the feeling created. artistic feeling invoked always. feelings of importance. all feelings are important. use of feelings as manipulation. art of manipulation. manipulating art. artistic manipulation. self portrait heavy handed. photographs for likes. photographs for the photographers love. mimicry of photography for the likes. mimicry of life for the likes. abyss of likes. likes determine life. life as a discipline to art. art for the ego of art. art of the ego of feeling. if a piece doesn't move you, you are not movable. what does it mean to you? it means nothing to me. I can only place my feelings onto the piece in question. making art only self important. meaningless or just visually pleasing. I like it. I love it. I don't like it. I don't love it. It's whatever. It doesn't move me. It doesn't emote feelings within me. intent. intention only. the dust scratches are left for a reason. this is important. a depiction of rational dreamlike reality. it is not a fantasy. dreaming is visually important.
common terms for people who have a fear of commitment:
casual dating, unattached, no pressure, too chill, open minded, present in the now, laid back, fluid, unemotional, withdrawn, loner, social butterfly, player, slut, too nice, unattainable, desirable, mysterious, narcissists, ego maniac, selfish, too loving, mercurial temperament, pusher, puller, good at the mother fucking game...
yeah, that makes sense.
intertwinement is beautiful
the day after
ok so when is that?
my schedule is packed,
maybe next month??
oh wait that's full too.
I left feeling unsatisfied,
it's easier to be vague sometimes
no credit earned. it's still all a fucking mess. but who will save us they ask?
who will save us
from the mess we created
while trying to leave our mark
well congrats, you did it
it is the mist and time between us
that brings us closer
though we are further apart
oh you can also chop wood, make a fire, cook, and clean...sure I'll take you. my equal.
my hand, in front,
it's not the same.
real, still mine,
yet all molecules have changed.
Your Gun Is So Hot, Your Gun Is So Sexy, Your Gun Is So Hot, Your Gun Is So Sexy, Your Gun Is So Hot, Your Gun Is So Sexy
eyes closed keep walking forward
sapient ripples upon glistening light trails
a sheathed mirror forms myopic visions
of determined thoughts unloved, percolating for solutions
it's a long stretch till the other end
it all cracks eventually
As a youth I was highly aware of others. This innate awareness does not suite the tumultuous storm of a teenage mind, I began to suppress it. If I seemed aloof or distant, I thought others would be more intrigued, the whole mysterious allure. Sometimes it worked and they were. Did this cost a piece of my identity? We all put on different faces, practice different personas trying to find our place. What character? What role? Did this pass the test? Will this make me liked by most and hated by some? Yes. Pretentious youth.
There. In my moment. Focusing. Breathing. Being. COOOOL. Limited reaction deems calm, reads cool. Unfazed ubiquitous state due to a copious amount of weed, created a mythically chill mentality. That California laid back vibe. How else did one get through their teenage angst? Still observing... everything. The sky, the stars, the sea, the leaves, the light, the clouds, the dance, the people all around me. The day to day, ins and outs, the sounds each car makes, the sighs and grunts of each person passing by, each subtle movement intrigues me. I see. I hear. I see. I hear. Stop. Lost and distracted almost at an instant. Pivotal moments enhanced by just being. Absorbed into another ones world. New Lust, love, like, obsess over. Did the idea of love blanket these moments, forcing them to into ethereal wonderments vs. reality. These moments were mine, like they were yours. I linger in patchwork threads of my past lives. It felt nice to fall, escape, lose myself in excuses, secretly choosing the desire not to "function", no it felt fucking great. I guess I've always been willing to lean back, driving at 100 mph (one time a guy picked me up and his seat was in full recline; I think he drove blind, because there is no way he saw over that dashboard), while crawling towards another body in my bed. Skin melding together, uncomfortably hot, un-wiling to peel away. A love and friend once said her favorite thing to do was to lay on hot cement in the blazing heat of the LA sun, cement so hot it creates a spa like experience, baking us in a frying pan and, us, sunny-side up. Now that felt fucking damn good, melt away my teenage heart. 31 will do that to you.
I'm still highly aware of others but now I relish in it. Wanting to replace my feelings with others. Connect the dots. Is your pain the same as mine? Your happiness? Your peace? Your love? Could be.
a swirling of light and dark fluttering emotions, a glorious mess, my life...
do you like Monet?
but even if it's black and white
it's still grey underneath
Monet makes me think of clueless
it's really not that deep
"nothing but the finer things in life"
"gimme that shit"
the day things change forever
bleary eyes stare into the sunburst horizon line
conflicting sadness consumes in random moments still
growth with pain is inevitable
embrace the opposition
an offering to mother nature on bare knees
bruised and bitten my sacrifice complete
with this agreement to be better
now I can rest at ease
cold day in Maine
my gut felt it coming,
never mine to have.
consumed by you, I surrendered.
my heart dismissed our inevitable state:
a casual pleasure of disappointment.