es triste
que en un mundo
como hoy
honestidad
honestidad pura
no es bienvenido
todos necesitan
para convertirse en esta almohada
de comodidad
al diablo con eso
prefiero quemar
y ser libre
que ser
tú

He lived alone along the coast
Small hut he built back in the 20s
He survived the war by
Stranding himself and living off
Critters, tiny insects, and berries
Although he lacked education
He was severely intelligent
Struggling most his life to stay alive,
He would write poems to women
That he never met, but only
Thought up to pass the time:

"I saw you in my sadness
One night we were alone
We had no clothes on
But we were no longer cold
There was fruit out for us
And blankets on the floor
In front of a small fire
I would kiss your back
And with each kiss
Upon your glowing skin
You had shed a tear
First from the left eye
And then a tear from the right
I kissed you over and over
Never asking why you cried
Because your turned around
With an enormous smile
And kissed me on the mouth
And held me so tightly

Later you told me that each tear
Was a layer of yourself
Peeling off
A bad memory in the past
It was you losing pieces
Of who you once were
Of what you once knew
And you wanted to start over
Tonight with me
Right here in front of the fire"

He wrote poems and ate berries
For the rest of his life

Ever had that moment
When you meet someone
Catch their big eyes
And you absolutely knew
When you opened your eyes
That that person was meant
Exactly for that moment
Yeah, well, make that person your life
And know that each moment
Was meant to be lived
With a pounding heart
A fist of gold, glass of honey
Good or bad the moment
That's life talking, take it

The artist must become a whole
Completely obsessed with their art
Obsessed with who they are
Truly, who they are
Without hesitation
Infatuated about how they create
The art that makes them be,
What it makes them live for
From how they take their coffee
To every moment of a good ****
Reading in peace at dawn,
Picking fruit from a grocery store
The truest of artists are always lost
Lost in their own mind
Unconcerned with the lashing of
Society's moral tongue
Pushing themselves out to sea
Creating only to be alive from within
Where it all counts,
And it all has some value

A wounded tiger
Bleeding across the jungle
Deeper into the night
Appears a fawn,
Who is eager to lead him to water
Step by step to the river
Blue moonlight hits
The tigers scarred back
Glowing blood, dripping down
No road was never straight
The tiger knew how to survive
His fawn kept the light in front of him

Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.


She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.


Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.


A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.


Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.


Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”


The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.

Art will come and go
And grow and be bold or ugly
It will transform lives, sculpt beauty
It will capture phenomenal imagination
Lead to new places or people
Change an entire perspective
Open a closed mind,
Expand an eager mind
Art is in us all
So ladies, if the man you seek
Is unapologetic in his art
Be open to all his personalities
Help cultivate the many characters
That he may have shown you
Don't hold them under water
And fellas, be men, be gentlemen
If your woman you hold true
Has bigger wings than your ****
Don't be weary, become nurturing
A woman's fire should burn and burn
Women who are creating art is better
Than the story of creation itself
We owe it to each other to let art live