Tag Archives: portrait

phantom boy

don’t you go,

phantom boy

i’m still not done

painting your portrait

to hang in my walls

long after the house rots,

long after i’ve passed away.

they said to let you go

for you’ve already found

your bluest heaven

where you can sleep with

fleecy floral angels,

but i don’t think i could

let you go that easily.

i want to capture you,

your ethereal silhouettes,

your faded outlines,

your scars and scepticisms,

your details and blurs,

and your coalescing heart.

because i still have mine,

phantom boy

and it beats angrily—

refusing to let me rest

until every colour, linework,

and careful brushstroke

is immaculate and

tastes tangibly of you.

i know you wish to leave soon,

phantom boy…

but won’t you please stay

and spare me just

one last masterpiece?

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a self-portrait painted on anaheim landscapes

I did what I do best, forgot myself
Got overdressed like everybody else
A glance and a half smile
Black heels on the white tile
It took seven years for your path to realign…

~*~

i am made of torn skin

and overplayed stereo songs

and a million miles to cali

and washed-out daydream colours

i’m lost; some would say gone

and my stares are silent dynamite

i remember what i throw away

again my tongue detonates

and i’m searching for meaning

in a world that’s as meaningless

as a crude april first joke

and not in the least bit funny

but i’ll keep on looking anyway

and maybe it will make sense

in some parallel universe someday

where time doesn’t wear my skin

and songs never sound the same

and cali’s just a tiptoe and half away

and the daydream never fades.

~*~

Gone, doesn’t it feel good to be invisible?
Gone, just like the way I used to be
Gone, have I been fading away?
Yeah, I’m so gone, gone…

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A Note To Send In The Sun

It’s hard to be living, you gotta play the cards you were given
You think it’s simple but it goddamn isn’t
It’s tougher now than breaking out of Shawshank prison
And as you’re hitting your prime
People say you been committing a crime
But I won’t quit till I’m home
I’ll chip the limestone a bit at a time…

~*~

I’m rigid and frigid, yet bespoke

Speaking of sharp tongues that limit

Themselves to asking “what is it?”

As the audience applauds the cynics

And sits in mentalities of finick

Spin it, another losing tale to uphold

The tongues of silver and hearts of gold

If my failed memory was distantly bold

Then why is the thought of you so cold?

Sold, the paintings I hid in the cellar

Buying my heart for a million dollars

Clashing in shades of blue and white collars

Eyes that could never appreciate the colours

Call her, the girl with piercings in her skin

And her tattoos that tally her sin from within

To keep the demons from gladly releasing medicine

She was injecting just so she could stay breathing

Was she so wrong to want to continue living?

And if living is a vice, then I don’t have to play nice

And keep on hanging to surprise just so I could receive their lies

For this world is not a masterpiece of peace waiting patiently on the shelf

Rather, it’s an empty canvas depicting ruin for the better

An accurate self-portrait of oneself.

~*~

Shit in storage, living from a suitcase
Thinking “this is how a silver spoon tastes?”
Cause you can make a dream possible
But it’ll never be easy, no matter what you chase…

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