As I rode the subway, I took interest in the people around me and wrote little pieces of each person.
Long hair, greased with no products
Just a simple man wealthy with problems
A tube of pink lipstick, coating her lips
But no man to wipe it off with
4-inch heels; painted red bottoms
but no label reading Louis Bouton
tailor suit, always paying the cover
Till he goes home to the basement of his mothers
Class clown, winning the word with his jokes
Social anxiety covering the real hoax
Instagram-friendly couple of the year
Pictured smiles practiced in the mirror
Weed leaf socks, cool kid to all of his friends
But little do they know, that joint will transcend
skinny but full, her protruding bones disagree
A shadow of her future if she continues to feed
He dips his toes into success and prepared to dive-in
Until the veil of truth fell from the glittery abyss
Is it true, is it true
what happened to you
When i get asked about love, it’s never the right questions.
Does love have a good job with an above average income? An income you can eventually take half of? A car worth triple your life savings and a mansion with a 5 car garage? Does love wear tailored suits or jackets lined with fox corpses? Oh and love better come from a good family with an even better bank account! Does love pay for all of your meals and shower you with gifts? Did you find your true love?
These are the questions I am surrounded by, because love to some is a synonym for stability, convenience and comfort.
They don’t ask me if love does everything in his power to make me feel beautiful.They don’t ask if love tries to make me happy even when circumstances are rough. They don’t want to know about the butterflies that fill my stomach or the smile he puts on my face. God forbid they ask if love is trustworthy and loyal. They don’t take into account how love drops his pride for forgiveness or travels 3 hours by bus just to see my face.
Love has many definitions but unfortunately some exclude genuine happiness as one.
He burns, under my skin.
all three fucking layers;
physically, mentally and spiritually.
You want to play the guilt game? Well I can play it too.
You can’t keep wrapping silk around the wounds you caused.
You can’t cover up your harsh words with letters of love.
You can’t throw a pity party as your optimistic thoughts dance to their deaths.
You can’t sharpen your nails like spears then try to caress me.
And you can’t fix the paranoid love you ripped to shreds with your own insecurities.
And yea, I will happily keep reading Bukowski with a glass of red in my hand.
Just a worn out face with wine-stained lips and cigarette breathe. I will never stop laughing at my young naïve self for thinking life would be a soft stroke of paint, preparing for a masterpiece to be revealed.
Instead my brush broke through the canvas and the paint was splattered all over the floor. So I kept trying to paint new pieces, narrowing this image in my head. Craving to create something better, something worth wall space.
Somewhere down the line, I realized I cannot pretend and imitate, cannot trace and colour in-the-lines. At the end of the day, that beautiful mess on the floor is me; the chaos and ruin will always be me.
It defines me
That is what raw art is right?
Something you never want to look at, but cannot keep your eyes off of.
Sitting in the corners of my mind
The eerie crevices where the sunlight never shines
Its difficult to close my eyes
because before I die
I want to know who’s been watching me every night before I go to sleep
With his torture of silence and sinister shadows passing through the only street lamp that lights the back wall of my room.
Waking up with black bags reminding me of the black shadows
The ones that cut corners of my rationality
Leaps over my sanity
And fights off the comfort of reality
If i open and close my eyes three times
And nothing is there, I’ll be fine
Okay maybe three more times,
One more time and I will fall asleep.
This is crazy, I am crazy
Why can’t I take a breathE
Once the light goes out in my bedroom
So does the one in my mind
What time is it?
Three, the devils hour
I feel myself heating up, perspiration forming
I need to stay awake until four, just in case.
I know it’s just a myth..
But just in case.
I’m aware none of this is true
Aware the tremble in my knees is just my imagination smirking at me
Maybe I need pills
Or another puff
This piece of work, the way you read it and it’s format is the workings of my mind under anxiety. It jumps from solution to conclusion to problem to nonsense to explanation all moulded by my irrationality and fear. The only way to understand, is to experience. There is no order, no silence, no moment of peace, no continuity, no control in my thought process when anxiety hits in the solitude of the night. No matter how physically comfortable I may be, there’s an ache of discomfort pulsing in my mind and in my chest, it gets louder and more powerful the deeper I explore. There is no reading over the above post to correct my punctuation or grammar, just as I would never contemplate and rationalize my thoughts and anxieties. I even had to look behind my computer screen as I wrote this, JUST IN CASE. It is nothing but fear, fear of the unknown, a fear that relies solely on the lack of understanding the questions that stay unanswered. Well that’s personally my interpretation of my own anxieties, but again, I am far from understanding the inner workings of my mind. It is crazy what our minds can convince us of.
Why are we created in confusion?
Made to live a life spent questioning everything around us; everything we see, everything we hear, everything we feel.
Is it our destiny to spend eternity searching for these despairing answers?
Or instead to roam free,
And the fact that we are not aware of our objective
Is what makes life worth pursuing.
We can continue life, swerving through the labyrinth of question marks.
Finding comfort in what our society labels as comfortable,
Being the person society says we are,
Trying to keep our balance on this type rope.
Or we can find our own path
It may be hard to follow, a little dangerous at times.
But this path full of jumps, ducks and the odd fall from tripping over a loose question
Is what freedom really is.
Avoiding what will never be certain,
And instead creating your own meaning to life.
And once we figure out these “answers”
We will realize they were never really worth questioning.
In a crazy world
Where anxiety doesn’t exist. Repression, depression and all those words that attach weights to the bottoms of our feet are nothing but a nightmare that exist only when our eyes shut. A place revolved around encouragement, confidence and equality. Where everything and everyone has a place and being humble is a natural innate thing that comes with birth; like hunger and hydration. Where our conscience only consists of an angel on each shoulder, whispering breathless soliloquies that keeps your head high and the ceilings higher. When money is just a bonus and not a goal, and inspiration isn’t a Google search away. When walking into the sunlight does not make us squint and run into the shade, but instead embrace and bathe in with the hopes that it will shine brighter than our iPhones. Where staring at a garden in physical form brings a satisfaction that doesn’t need to be photographed and publicized, but rather a solitude bliss that only your eyes and that moment deserve. Showing your children attention isn’t considered throwing an iPad in their laps, but a baseball and a glove to form bonds that don’t require a Facebook friend request as reassurance. Instead of drugs being the only resort to temporarily block out the pain, we instead cope the natural way that forms a stronger layer around the broken areas. When the media encourages beauty to be different and much more than just a muscular, flawless, tall, trendy, narrow-minded silhouette of inaccuracy. A place where monsters are only under our beds instead of in our heads.
Like I said, a crazy world.
“Money buys happiness”
one of the most controversial lines known to man. To me, money brings temporary happiness. Anyone who is financially stable can walk into a store knowing they are able to afford as much as they’d like and spoil themselves to the core. To me, the feeling of walking into a store with a limited amount of money can bring a happiness that no infinite amount can bring. As a kid, i was always put in those positions, constantly wishing i’d get lucky and find a 50 on the ground. My luck never changed, but now i am grateful for that. I remember the feeling of walking through the aisles with only the sound of my allowance clinging in my pocket, reminding me of my limited choices. I had this love for animal figurines, but finding affordable ones was my biggest problem. The second i’d see one an array of emotions rushed through me. The most dominant was hope and excitement for the item meeting my price limit. When i found out i could afford it, that I was able to take it home to my collection, i don’t think anything could of brought me more happiness. To me there is a big difference between the happiness of knowing you could buy all the figurines that the store has to offer, and the happiness of finding one unexpectedly that you will cherish and appreciate because you walked into the store not knowing if you can afford something that special at all.
A bucket. The only metaphorical way that helps me understand the growth of a person. A bucket starts off empty and clean. Eventually the bucket will be filled, maybe slowly, maybe quickly. constantly filled with different liquids or solids. Most of the time it can leave debris from its past, overlapping other substances or mixing together. Over time this bucket will ware out and become effective on how well it works.
A baby. Born into confusion with pure innocents and an empty bucket. Growing up you get yourself -or get thrown- into situations that effect the way you perceive and deal with things. These types of experiences leave its remains that eventually start building up. Everyone grows up getting filled to the rim with these incidents that haunts their every action, sometimes influencing it on others. So we carry around these buckets, straining our backs to avoid building the strength to just empty them. Some ignore it, let it eat away at their mind without even realizing the damage its doing.The only problem is, we cant go out and buy a new bucket, the most we can do is free ourselves from the heavy load or throw a lid on it.
When people think of art, they visualize paintings and sculptures. What most don’t realize is that there is so much more to the word “art”. If you perceive things with such beauty and originality, everything you look at, listen to or even taste is a work of art: the roots of a tree, the rising smoke from a cigarette, our chromosomes magnified, the curves and wrinkles at the edge of a smile, the clouds formation behind the sun, a simple guitar riff. These conventional normalities can be much more appreciated with a different perspective, which is the main reason creativity is such a big aspect in some lives. it is the gift of a mentality that believes life is so much more beautiful then what the accustomed eye can grasp. Even for the aspiring artists -whether it is a painter, writer,musician- all the best works of art come from inspiration; that emotional connection from the simplest of things that can root out a series of ideas. Our mentality is what divides us as humans, but to me, all the happiest people have one similarity. We all have come to the realization that there is art in everything.