Tag Archives: artist

Colourblind Memory

And when I see you
I really see you upside-down
But my brain knows better
It picks you up and turns you around
Turns you around, turns you around
If you feel discouraged
That there’s a lack of color here…

~*~

It was an easy kind of self-destruction; the one I never had to beg for.

After a few nights of staying awake and listening to cheaply-constructed songs on the static radio, I was already haunted. Copper chain links that stabbed at the fictional horizon and left unstitched scars on the exposed wind. Shy vespertine flowers that bloomed in the most coruscant spectrums, but only when no weeping eye was there to witness their exquisite grandeur and compose concerto symphonies about it. An infinite, arrogant, wakeless kind of blue that rivaled every transatlantic and pacific direction that I chased; but, unlike the oceans of this planet so drenched and cold and jaded to the bone, no one is ever able to cross it, and no one ever will.

And violet. A damnable shade, akin to roses-not-reds and forget-me-nots, that violet. A bleeding, dirty kind of violet that left filthy, undecipherable Roschach stains everywhere. Splattering the bruises of my halted tongue, shading the asphyxiation of my untouched lips, violently overtaking the rock-steady sorry secret that was divulged and diluted all too late. It painted a tragedy that only the most damaged and paranoid artists could understand, and rending shreds of the purest agony down my colliding ribs that not even the most genius maestros and starving dilettantes could begin to dissect; for it was a foreign anatomy. A different unknown. A beyond the beyond. It was brutally twisted inside my veins and gauchely discarded somewhere in between sense and sanctuary, photographed and arrested in another postcard vintage lie. I could write graphite letters at the back all I want, but I’ll never swim away from the indigo waves in front. It was our holiday memory, drowning me again and again and again.

Absolutely useless. It couldn’t aid my breathing. It couldn’t save my sleeping. It was a disease that was highly susceptible only to my atrophied words and comatosed syllogisms—the same unfortunate ones that are now leaving my chafed fingers but never my wornout mind, like you, like you, like you.

Unrelenting. Unsuspending. Unending.

All my colours were inverted. And no one can turn it back the right way.

If there even was one.

~*~

Please don’t worry, lover
It’s really bursting at the seams
For absorbing everything
The spectrum’s A to Z
This is fact, not fiction
For the first time in years…

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Filed under Prose

Vita Dell’aldilà: An Tragedy Opera in Four Parts

A makeshift smile, a polished look
Some rehearsed lines was all it took
He had it down, man, he was good
A woman screams, her mother weeps
A life so changed irrevocably
What he stole from her is gone for good…

~*~

ACT I: TERRO

Shadows under a spotlight, curtains calling and faces falling

Misfortune malady and maidens in masks, tickets outselling

The man of the show, the leading actor dies of a heart attack

They applaud his craft, the prima donna screams come back…

~*~

ACT II: INFERNO

Pantomimes place props, as paramedics arrive for scene two

The act has turned, audiences gasp, orchestra goes crescendo

A stagehand slips and farers faint, dim lighting and all is dire

Cigar tossed, a painted background of inferno catches on fire…

~*~

ACT III: PURGATORIO

The doctor announces the demise of a thespian, tears are shed

Performers pause for unfortunate condolence, in a quiet stead

Breaths hushed and whispers silenced in devastated memorial

As the stage director pays his respects, and indicates the burial…

~*~

ACT IV: PARADISO

But the artists recover, as the crowd settles down to a murmur

Limelight brightens, musical tempo, inquiries made no further

The poor cadaver carried away to the morgue to be cared upon

Death might watch from the audience, but the show shall go on.

~*~

When the purest soul is stained by sin
To the public eye where can she begin?
She lost it all and it’s gone for good
And she may never beat the system
But she won’t rest until she’s turned
The villain to the victim…

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Filed under Poetry

An Artist’s Love

may it be piano

or a guitar, i’ll

play it for you

may it be a pen

or quill, i’ll write

unfettered true

no matter how

many fingers i

break or bruise,

for you my dear

i’ll endure every

blister and callous.

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Filed under Poetry

The Cabinet of Broken Curiosities

Dangling pink pointé ballet shoes faked

Worn out by the cold shadows unseen

Pirouetting high in the dusty swan lake

Of just another lost dancer’s dream

.

Quills, nibs and broken dried pens found

Dripping a puddle of grotesque black ink

Onto the pages of a great book never bound

From a mind that winded but never thinked

.

Unplucked, rusted, old, stiff guitar strings

Strummed by the zephyr’s soft bearings

Absorbed in the silent symphony, mourn

Of just another musician’s unsung woes forlorn

.

Lush paintbrushes and chromatic sessions

Never to touch a canvas forever or today

Strange abstractions and love illusions

Unpainted and tainted in darkest of grey

.

An old curious cabinet sits unnoticed in the corner

Containing memories and emotions made for never

Of just another aspiring artist’s once hopeful ambitions

Til they were told to grow up and lost their colourful visions.

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Filed under Poetry

The Darker Thespian

No one else knows it, but I am an artist;

A writer, a painter, an actor, jack of all trades, I have it all

But not a conventional one, for my inspiration lists

At the very void of my brain and the ruin of my soul

.

I inspire myself by dragging my emotions down

Depression is very welcome, for he’s what fuels my mind

I sacrifice and suffer, for artistry I’ll scream and frown

A passionate artist, for my craft, leave my common sense behind

.

I weave chromatic words together with the darkness of my heart

Create a web of lies, my burdens dictate my art

Scratching words on a pad, hoping someone would notice me

Creating my own reality and cautionary tales with poetry

.

I paint works of arts with a sharp brush and my own blood

The numbing pain, the crimson rain, give me joy, it’s quite odd

Painting pretty pictures on the canvas of my skin

 Covering my ugly scars with better ones, abstract to its kin

.

I practice my acting by faking my feelings everyday

It’s all a stage play to me, why does it matter anyway

Tons of masks to hide me, all plastered upon my face

Trying to compete with a society that is the greatest fake

.

I am an artist, and this is what I do so far

Everything I feel for this world, on my works and creations it lies

But shame now that the world has lost another star

For my artistry finally drove me to the wall and lead to my demise.

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Filed under Poetry