Step, One, Two

So once again, now that I've accomplished the goals I've dropped them.
I wrote the songs and forgot them.
I know that I can and move on and
I get so much praise for so little.

Before, if I was frustrated I would hit reset and retry.
Now I fight until I win then put down the gloves.
What is worth it to me?
What is worth holding on when I could care less?

The victory isn't the focus, but it's the peak, afterwhich I feel my interests wane.
Another project, another theme, another self that I could be.

How hollow the work is.
It shows potential, and yet it is finished.

I know I can, so I don't.

You all see the budding form, I see only the lines.

What is this reliance on new material? Why do I stop caring?

If art is an expression of self...I really don't give a good shit if I'm lonely.

How can I force myself to hold on?

the prize goes to...

As an assignment, we were supposed to draw two self portraits with only a sharpie, I happend to recieve a red one. They were to focus on line and contour, expression of form rather than realistic shading or symbolism. Let's hope I get a good grade on this. Sorry to waste tonight's post on schoolwork.



Instead of another profile of my face I decided to do perspective for these...this one focusing soley on my pants, so the two dimensionality of it borders on boring line art. But I like how it turned out...I want to write on the ground, facing the implied body, not the audience,
"What Giants See"



This one I did with my left hand, noteably more challenging. Hence the stupid squiggley lines. But I'm overall proud of it. Comments?

So Here We Are

Unformatted, uncut, indecisive and tangled up.

I painted a picture of eternity upon a canvas meant for a simpleton.

I spoke with words in song using a tongue built for lovers.

And yet I cannot seem to express still, that which chisels away daily at my very heart.

"It's just paint, they're just words.
Fingers are for feeling
Fists are for beating
Scabs are for healing
And blood is for bleeding."
Name that tune!

Haha, goodnight everyone.
I hope getting cryptic is worth it for some of you.
Wordplay being my forte, I felt like weaving rhymes would better suit my time than stories that show how boring and unorigional my mental mechanisms are.

Let's see if poetry suits me.
Remeber that time I sent you those lines?

She knows who she is.
Thank you love, for reminding me who I was.

She knows who she is.

And Here Again

It's time to put on the happy face and the sad hat, making for ideal dreams in my melancholy mind.

Somewhere in between reality and a lie, my truths are less the stories and more the rhyme. An author abounding with arrogance defeats his own desires as his demons devour him.

How translucent, yet shielded I remain. I contemplate my safety and wallow in the stains on my resume. My feelings detained for later days of truth, nondescript and fantastic.

This is not the life I live, or the one I want, this is something else entirely, a world you created and I told you about. How does that make you feel? Being God is a burden, one would assume.

In the words of Oscar Wilde
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Happy trails to open conversation, as I bait you in with contemplation, simplicity and foolery. How lucky you are to wear my words on your sleeves, and how difficult they were to create. My throat gives you no more. Cherish.

Please don't hold on, it's getting worse.

Please don't listen, I'm a mad man.

Please draw me in closer...

I wanted to speak candidly, but this shining armor weighs my morals down to the dirt and my boots crush the grass on the shady side of a makeshift oasis.

Obscure? Perhaps.
Meaningful? To someone, perchance.

Did it ever mean a thing to me before I knew you loved it?

Does that even matter?

Colors You Love

I tried to explain without words what I wanted to show you.
I tried to capture upon a canvas a moment in passing.
An instant.
A flash.
And it hurt when I failed you.

Sometimes I paint only in black.
Sometimes I painy only in the colors you love.

I painted a picture of eternity.
I showed it to you, you smiled, I smiled.

But I only smiled because you looked so happy.
I didn't see anything.

So come on, come on!
Life is wasting away!
Come on, come on!
We can squeeze one more day
Out of these things we've made
Everything that I create

Is composed of the colors you love.

Closer and Closer

The main thing with people like him is to not get impatient. Sure, he's said the same things a thousand times, sure he's going to tell you the same tired story again like it's new and fascinating. What you've got to remember is that he is like a small child, always fascinated. What you've got to do, for him, is put on that happy face every time and be encouraging. People like him need a solid foundation.

Kicking him to the floor does not count.

No mam, tough love is not the same with people like this.

Look, we ARE professionals here. Trust me, your boyfriend seriously needs help, I know he seems fine sometimes, all the time, whenever, but he is unstable. He is not fit for society. Sure we let him sing his songs, it calms the other patients. That doesn't mean we trust him.

No that does not condone you not trusting him.

You have something over him no ammount of clinical respect for us will ever compare to.

You have his heart.
Well I'm sorry if you don't want it! Sometimes you just need to be there for someone.
Please just give it some time. You seem to be his connection to the real world. Please help us help him.

Please just give it some time.

For him.

Likewise,

Paying attention to the small things makes you ponder the futile.
Loving the irrelevant is passionate, but not productive.
Procreate!
Who can claim to never waste?
I trust that you see the forest and the trees.
Just one interests you more. Right?
Procreate!
Maybe the fact that you came back to questioning yourself is the answer within itself.