thoughts 2

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty two

thoughts 2

This garden is fertilized with cigarette butts. These walls are decorated with words, and I don't remember why I put them there. The carpet is filled with the remains of meals, and drowns in drops of spilled drinks. 

I am lonely when I'm home. I am lonely when I'm surrounded. I feel disconnected, unknown, unrealized. I feel like a myth, a mistake. I am out of place in every place that I go. Is there anyone else who feels so alone?

Is it still a missed opportunity if it would have made me dreadfully unhappy?

Though I am, already, dreadfully unhappy. I want love, strength, wisdom. I feel trapped by my naivety. How can anyone speak before they have lived? The young know nothing. Every statement is simply a guess at the unknown. Like pointing the way through a cave with no lantern to guide. 

I don't care enough about anything. My dreams and goals are put on hold for things that I must do. "Fuck the way you live your lives," I scream in immature angst, but what am I proving with words, while my actions mirror yours? 9-5, nickel&dime, I work as you work, I sleep as you sleep, I eat and drink and make mistakes. This is the habit of humanity, but I don't want to be human anymore. I don't feel human anymore. I feel trapped. I feel like reality is a facade, a silly trick played on us, to see who will fall for it. And like lambs to the slaughter, we lap at the fodder, feasting at our troughs.

Everyday I walk along, feeling wholly disconnected from the rest of the world. Isolated within my own mid, cursed with the burden of thoughts. They run in circles, these thoughts of mine. Joining hands and voices in endless arcs of Ring Around the Rosie. "who-are-they what-are-they what-do-they-want?" My own mind mocks me with a melody, while it's my soul that is suffering. It's not a pain so great as depression, more of a hollowness. A constant melancholy. A complete indifference to the world around me. Not a mote of care for schol, work, money. Yet I deeply yearn for a soulful connection, not a fake friendship based on meaningless works. Everyday I walk along, a hypocrite, a young mind trapped by its own deficiencies. I walk troubled and timed and terribly true. I walk alone.

Suicide Girl Fight Club Fan Art

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty one

the original photo from a Suicide Girls photoshoot, of the "female fight club"

my free-handed drawing of the killer lady

City Life

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty

CITY LIFE

the traffic moves

in a mollasical flow

drags me down

in its undertow

amoeba-like hands

throughout the city

industrial maze

beautiful and gritty

oil stains

like black birthmarks

dashed guiding lines

no longer stark

a concrete wood

with bark like brick

the moss below

unhoused and sick

and critters crawl

let's call them crowds

no smiles found

for they weren't taught how

an open-topped tomb

a great mass grave

where the undead live

and the living slave

so rare

a free-souled bird flies by

but quickly caught

its wings are tied

it walks alone

forever tethered

no rodents see

this rat is feathered

Life is Art

Deceitful art is a sin greater than murder. Art reveals more about the artist than the subject itself. True art is just masturbation hidden beneath pretty sheets. Art is a way for us to reveal that which we are too scared to simply say. Love, hate, racism, adultery, homosexuality, fury, glee, desperation, abandonment, abuse, deceit, cheating, chance, freedom; All of these things can be easily explored in the name of art. One may not commit sodomy, but one may write about it, paint it, film it, and all is well. Anything is accepted by society when labelled art.

But I say the painter and the writer are as responsible as the people who do such things in real life. Not that they should be looked down upon for such instincts and urges, but should be praised for admitting to such wants, even under the false pretense of art. Do not be scared to let yourself make art. Do not shy away from the truths which will be revealed about yourself. Instead, let yourself write the story of the psychotic murderer, write it in the first person. Immerse yourself and reveal yourself. Life is never as fun as when you're stealing it from others.

Write about things that evoke emotions from you. Don't simply write what makes everyone else happy, write about what thrills you, what scares you. Don't just write what you know, write what you want to know. Let your creation be your teacher. Let your prose be a mirror. A camera on a timer. A self-portrait. Let your art reveal parts of yourself that you didn't know you had. Risk everything not for a reward, but to chance the odds that you may break, that you may fall to the depths of your soul and discover the most terrifying truths about yourself. Put your heart into your work, write with your blood in a book bound by your own skin.

Honesty Honesty Honesty. That is art. The truth is art. Life is art. Art is not the shade, art is the light by which to cast away the shadows. Art is the means to revealing the truth. The more you lie to yourself, the harder it is to make art. The truth hurts, and the more painful the art, the more honest it will be.

For the Love of Books

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy nine

i am small

insignificant

unknown

i am stupid

oblivious

unknowing

i am cowardly

frightened

traumatized

i am lonely

undiscovered

isolated.

I walk,

a miniature

on shelves of oak

Leather

Mahogany

Ink

Bound together

Captured

Caught

Immortalized

Worlds

Nations

Perpendicular

Universes

Nothing

like this

I skip,

across

the spines

Clamber

up the

covers

My path

is paved

with

passages

A letter-bricked

road

from

A to Z

I undress

bare, skin

soul

and consciousness

Poised

on edge

of paper bound

Feel pulp

pressed

thin

between my toes

and into

worlds

nations

parked perpendicular

I dive

headlong

naked

nothing

canvas clean

I bathe

in dreams

of geniuses

let words

wash,

letters

lather,

paragraphs

punctuate.

I,

a sponge

they,

the water

slowly

swiftly

suck in truths

absorb ideas

displayed uncouth

I wade

through

minds

of men

birthed

from

minds

of men

fact is

fiction

as I 

see fit

poultice

and

poison

paint with

identical

hues

I backstroke

through stories

bound by

the skin

of the dead

I am taught

by men

long gone

friends are

found

in

Flander's fields

These words

like a cake

that begs

"eat me"

implore me

to grow

I Am Big

Significant

Known

I Am Smart

Aware

Knowing

I Am Brave

Fearless

Untouched

I Am Allied

Discovered

Surrounded.