art is knowing that the paint, chalk, graphite, or paper created the image but stepping outside the boundaries of the material and allowing your intuition, emotion, and most thought provoking contexts to take hold and transform the image with your knowledge and your senses. you become aware of an image, meaning, feeling that’s all your own. the piece is living and it gains importance. lose yourself. the paint no longer exists in the eye of the viewer. all that is left are evocative symbols that seem more powerful than anything explicit…if done right.
words, how can i hide from the revealing ever so truthful beautiful keepers of knowledge?
i let the magma seeping out of my brain -with anger passion inspiration and connectivity. like an atom bomb one thought had the ability to quadruple and to link and to explode into understanding.
but then i grew cold. distracted and lazy. the thought hardened and with hindsight, i can no longer see
where is my mind? off in a colorful, field somewhere, i believe
(stupid mushy poem that i needed to get on a page. the 1st and last i promise)
Glazing the words over, over, over again. My eyes resigned. Glossy and shallow I think of you
I used to believe I could read minds. Not anymore.
Its not that you’re too intricate…you might be.
Its that im attracted to your sensibility. Unknown is your wandering lust for things interesting, what you say to break the silence, what you think when a squirrel tugs at the cuffs of your pants, how you put beauty into words- into being.
My mind races for something that entertains you, makes you think…of me as yours.
heartbeat 120 and im stuttering.
Just kiss my forehead and make me melt away.