Shattered in skies without stars… A darkness that filled a core with a color that a brush can’t paint… A painter who wanted to paint the sky blue just to tell you how he feels for you… But a painter was only a writer and what he wrote were only on paper…
And there the mother fairy – whispering to the dreamer – it’s always good not to paint ! –
Stars fell down the sky like a chandelier made of crystals hit with a hammer… Millions of shattered pieces hit the ground causing a ghastly clamor… My words diapered in the air and my heart melted into cold tears… Like an army of soldiers struck my corse with thousands of spears!!!
Thrash those bad memoirs as it shall return no more
Looking ahead for the upcoming years…
Mares of battle fields soldiers cus relate to ur home movie amore
My words are like swords battling in dimensional worlds, tearing apart chords like an unconventional force, growing like illegitimate sports, competing in underground courts, with open doors to a public of no remorse, bringing life to a corpse
Since the brush that can’t paint no more It writes…
I rather be blind this instant simply getting enough of allies’ been a long time
My recollections on traveling through the messiest entanglement of environment and society on a self ridden bicycle, and so have many others who examine daily the power dynamics wrapped up in how we, as a society, relate to our environments. Sharing of yourself is so much intimidating than imagining It takes ,, effort binding time & courage to be honest. The facts are always changing- and so is your story. The installation is erasable – the story is impermanent: shifty and fuzzy edged. Nothing you write here will be set in stone. Nothing you draw will be held up as anything more than an artifact of a process you were kind enough to share with your community. Be loose! Take chances! Step outside your experience and push the boarders of your worldview. You don’t have to walk away with another perspective, but I do hope you will empathize with another – maybe someone you wouldn’t normally talk to.
once a long upon ago…beauty is seen through the eyes of the beholder, words of an artist that saw the world from a corner… With the force of nature, made of dirt and dust into a beautiful creature… The mystical clouds are visions vivid and when mind is strong n thoughts are clear, the skies. Could tell a hidden tale ..
warmth of shining sun enabled the shell of the soul to feel and fear came in to attack as weather chill. The wind is every thought in wandering minds and the turbulence of nature represents what’s inside… The stars are every single smile formed into a constellation, and when the rain falls, darkness becomes a sensation… roaring thunders awakening those adrenalin that runs beneath the body work of veins and under… Red sea, tranquil and unpredictable is the blood within …often calm but traumatic transitional, like a wave full of massive power, a raging fuel of desire… Left me all alone from yet another occurring mares I dare to infinitely bare.