February 2012
6 posts
3 tags
h20 Revisited
H20 (In)Tolerant
**to all those who are plagued with the need to create.
I weigh my breaths with the weight of water
dancing through my veins;
a mess of pirouettes, and boundless leaps,
agile turns in an allegro dream,
and I cannot find the clean, serene,
cleansing ocean inside of me.
When I think of my composition,
My composites do not reveal
a well-mannered ocean tiptoeing to meet the...
Bones, Revisited as River Banks
I found my love engraved
On the inner sleeve of river banks,
An inscription carefully woven
Into a worn childhood sweater.
When I was young I learned
About love through river banks,
the edge of a river where the land begins.
I imagined the water lapping up to kiss the land
tiptoeing gracefully as so to impress,
nuzzling into the crook of its neck,
tenderly caressing its cheek,
never fighting...
Stop talking.
This is a call to stop talking. Stop talking about doing something beautiful. Stop talking about creating something that you want everyone to remember. Stop talking about how trapped you are, and how much you feel like you’re missing out on everything. Stop talking about the things you’ll never say, the inadequacies you feel, the fear that you’ll never make it.
Stop talking,...
January 2012
9 posts
H20 (In)Tolerant
The gnawing feeling that comes only
When
Plagued
With this
Much weight.
This much weight
The principles of physics don’t apply here.
Tell me, we’re made up mostly of water
A composition of seemingly fluid, peaceful, calm substance
That can turn, when provoked, into a master of transformation
Why is it, why is that when I look at the sea, when I look at a glass of water, when I stare into a broad...
Ceilings.
The ceiling never fails to astonish me. Some people might think it’s some weird obsessive compulsive habit, but I don’t.
You see, no matter what, each square is always perfectly in line with the one next to it, and that one above it.
Each line is always perfectly straight.
Never one too small or too wide.
Always perfect.
Every night at exactly 1:12 a.m., I look up at the ceiling and find...
The Truth: From Inside a Burning Building
Je porte le poids du monde sur mes épaules. I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders and hope not to crumble.
I’ve witnessed buildings, peel slowly; I’ve seen them lose their hope, little by little; I’ve seen the hope extinguished from the veins that pulse inside the most inanimate of objects; I have seen the life in something that is said to be void of life. If they could only find...
When I Was Young: from the Truth Volume 1: Track 5...
When I was younger,
I hid behind angsty music.
Sometimes it just felt better
to blend in.
I figured that
when I got older,
I’d figure everything out.
Now,
I’m hiding my angst
In order to be
the me I think I should be.
We should grow calmer in age;
I don’t know if I am.
A fire is raging inside of me.
It’s hard to be who you really are
When you’re scared...
The Truth.
“This is all I know.” Scrawled on a weathered and torn slice of a 9 ¾” blue lined composition page, these words echoed the only solid truth I thought I would ever encounter in my life. See, truths are something rarely ever encountered. Human nature only fools us into thinking we have found the truth, when in reality, it is merely an illusion of where we are with our lives and what we think we...
Bones, Take 2
I found myself stitched on the inside of winter’s bone, an inscription carefully woven into a worn childhood sweater.
The stained earth read like letters from two long, lost, lovers; Weathered, hardly legible, torn at the edges Disintegrating into the dirt with the imprint of unheard whispers and an old life
I used to know where our footprints stopped, but the river is constantly weeping.
Etch...
December 2011
8 posts
“Art is a conversation. Through words and lines, text and images, paint and so...”
– Conversations with an artist. Lets hope I can successfully cover you, JV. I only hope to bring as much beauty into your work as you put in.
I found myself stitched on the inside of winter’s bone, like an inscription carefully woven into a worn childhood sweater. The dirt on the ground read like letters from two, long, lost, lovers; weathered, hardly legible, a memory of hidden secrets and an old life. Etch your story into the dirt, and watch the river fade it away.
I used to know where our footsteps stopped, but the river...
“And you, liar, teller of tall tales: you trample all the Lord’s commandments...”
