Harlequin

Her iris swelled with sapphire,

Giving vibrant, colorful life to the oceans and the skies.

Her eyes retreated to a peaceful slumber at night,

Hiding from some poisoned memories.

The world became ill as she slept,

Causing the paint to melt from the canvas.

The sun may shine,

But the darkness will remain until she awakens.

Dawn approaches, awakening her from her slumber.

Tears cascaded from the crevice of her eyes,

Painting the sickly, gray world once again.

Beauty pervaded every corner of the canvas,

Giving the world another day of vibrant life.

Beauty and Chaos

The World is a painting I exist in,

Yet I don’t even know its Creator.

It’s a work of Art that is never permanent,

Amending itself with escalating beauty and chaos.

I stand in an open field to view

The evolving beauty. It’s like

The colors bleed into each other

To create an entirely new painting to awe.

The colors of the World begin to melt.

The paint falls to the surface I stand upon

Like rain that cleanses the World

From all its chaos.

The surface is flooding with this concoction.

The pool’s volume continues to grow until my feet are lifted

And I’m swimming in the paint.

The World is looking white

As if the Creator is beginning a new project.

The paint continues to melt until I’m treading

In the pool of beauty and chaos.

This is not the end of the World;

The Artist wants us to truly engage with the Art.

I look upon the ghostly white environment,

And then slowly fall until my head is submerged in the paint.

I’m not fading into the darkness,

I am drowning in Art.

The pool of beauty and chaos drowns me,

Dying in Art and not a World of nothing.

The World Is My Painting

I’m haunted by the elegiac darkness of this world.

There are no visible boundaries of this black room I exist in.

No light, no color, almost as if the world itself is blind.

How am I to restore light in such a dark place

That even I am unable to see through?

I cannot see, I can smell, taste, hear, and touch

The darkness circulating throughout the realm.

A light has made its presence known as a glow

Emits from the depths within my body.

This white shine only glows within my body

And still leaves the rest of the world saturated in black paint.

My heart and every other vital organ are exposed.

A myriad of colors are flowing through my veins.

These are the only colors left that exist.

The world needs to be painted again so

I’m going to bring it back to life.

With a razor, I cut through my skin and watched

The colors seep through my body into the darkness.

A pool of multicolored paint lays in front of me at my disposal.

With a paintbrush, I use the colors within my body

And give a hue to everything that was once alive.

I’m losing consciousness and I will soon be dead

But the world will never again dabble into darkness.

The grass is greener than it ever was, the sky is bluer

And everything that was once beautiful is lively again.

I’ve fallen into a slumber in which I’ll never awake,

But I’ll get to sleep in a pool of beautiful colors

I knew once existed. To my death,

I’ve made the world a painting of my own

That came straight from the heart.

Stop Looking At Me

Mona Lisa will not stop staring at me.  It’s either the woman in the painting itself or the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci that makes those eyes follow your every movement.  Collectively, perhaps, they’re studying my body in hopes of rearranging my internal organs so they can use my plentiful blood for paint.  You’re dead and the woman in the painting is forever dried and locked within the frame.  However, I’m already troubled that your image has made its way to the cover of magazines, DVD covers, and an assortment of parodies to add to this insufferable horror.

Yes, Leonardo, you were a genius and still are a genius.  Mona Lisa thrives off of your everlasting popularity, which still gives her that fresh, unnerving stare that never seems to fade over time.  I can feel my eyeballs attempting to sink into my head, breaking the sockets so that they have a little more wiggle room to drown themselves in a pool of nerves and brain fluid.  To hell with the occipital lobe, I don’t want to see you anymore and I want you to leave my house.

My mother insists that you stay because you’re so often celebrated and no house is complete without some variation.  My blood boils at the notion of your presence haunting homes and museums at an international level.  Most people would get arrested these days if they just glared at others all day like you do.

What’s with that stupid smirk?  Do you want to say something?  Are you feeling squirrely?  Are you about to let out a tortuous scream that shatters testicles worldwide?  Just get this horror over with.

Bring The Violence

Many readers and friends alike have gathered that some of the things I write are particularly violent, sometimes downright gruesome.  Naturally, this has created a scare where some believe I need to be institutionalized, although I’m actually pretty psyched to see that many have voiced positive reception of my work.

I thought that this would be a good time to address violence in the media, something that I’m quite passionate about.  No, I’m not passionate about violence, more so, I’m passionate about the cultural response to violence.  I suppose it intrigues me more because I frequently listen to music and watch movies that are labeled as violent.  Ever since Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold caused ruckus and moral panic worldwide, violence in the media has skyrocketed to the top of the list of things that must be repeatedly scolded.

Of course, I am a complete opponent to the claim that violent entertainment has anything to do with real-life violence.  It’s an excellent scapegoat that many people love to employ if fingers are pointed towards them for blame.  It’s something that people want to control, kind of like how some people who don’t support gay rights purposely try to make it so couples of the same sex cannot marry.

Quite often, music and television are the usual suspects if any sort of violent tragedy has occurred.  I think it’s interesting that literature, sports, and the country’s most populated religions are never questioned.  If you’re saying that murder in a movie or violent lyrics in a song can inspire somebody to commit violence, what about seeing an image of Jesus Christ on the cross?  Is this not a violent image?  What about sports where children are repeatedly encouraged by their parents to “Kill them” or “Hit them” during friendly competition?

The violence in some of my writings are not there to shock anybody.  The fact is, like some PG-13 movies fail to acknowledge, that when you’re shot with a bullet, you’re gonna bleed.  I’m not expecting 8 gallons of gore to spit out of their wounds, but I enjoy and respect realism.  I hate it when artists have to censor their work just so others will not be offended.  This is what I try to do out of respect for other artists and spectators of art.  I’m not going to censor the violence or any other “offensive” detail for the few people who either cannot stomach it or feel like it is unnecessary.

The best advice I can offer is this: If you’re offended, do not proceed to read and do not cause a scene just because it is not to your liking.  Move on out of respect for the writer if the content does not suit your beliefs or tastes.  Using the gay rights example again, it’s just like how you shouldn’t go out of your way to ensure people who do not share similar beliefs to follow your code.  You may not support gay rights, but then why are you bothering those who share love for one another?  Why are you trying so hard to make sure they adhere to your traditional Christian views on marriage?  The best strategy is to ignore it and move on and read something else.

As a writer, I demand the ability to write how I see things fit, and I would expect nothing but the same from anybody else.  Don’t censor yourself out of fear that a few people out in the world will be upset.  Let them worry about their own art.

Mirrors: Inanimate Life

If there’s anything in this world that isn’t deceptive, it’s a mirror. It’s the best at mimicking the actions of the real world flawlessly. In a sense, a mirror knows the world better than you do in a physical way. It’s an incredible artist with the brilliant talent of showing you a photographic image, animating you and everything else around. In a way, it’s better than a friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, or any category of human being because it doesn’t lie to your face for personal gain. I applaud the mirror for bringing me together with the person that I really am…on the outside.

That’s its one flaw. It is spot-on with visuals, but is incapable of mirroring the psychology and the perplexing details of your inner self. While it may be a flaw, you shouldn’t be concerned. It can’t manipulate your feelings about yourself and the world, you’re doing this to yourself. The mirror is innocent, it tests your willingness to accept the truth. Hopefully you aren’t relying on a mirror to tell you who you really are on the inside and out. Are you really going to take your frustration out on an inanimate object? However, it isn’t exactly inanimate to the fullest. It’s lifeless, yet projects and animates life. It can visualize the love between you and your significant other, it can stare back at you with your own smile, among other things. It may be able to see and show our physical affection for one another, yet it’s quite possible we don’t feel very similar on the inside. I can smile into the mirror, yet on the inside my feelings are destructive.

We constantly lie to the one who is incapable of deception. Just imagine what a mirror does when you’re turned around and not even looking. Is the mirror a backstabber, stooping to the level of humanity when we aren’t looking? If anything, it doesn’t want to show us what monsters we really are, and it doesn’t want to show the world for what it is: descending into chaos at the hands of monsters.

An Artist’s Creation

Whenever I get into that ‘I don’t know if I’m real’ mood, I always retreat to the mind of an artist. I don’t know who this artist is, but he very well may be my Creator. I’m afraid that I’m living in his fantasy world as a complex character in his story. The other people are supporting characters, yet I don’t know if I function as the protagonist, antagonist, or the role of another supporting character. If I’m just another supporting character, then I don’t know who the main character is.

The world is constantly changing, which gives me the notion that he hasn’t written his story on paper yet, meaning we’re still swimming in a whirlpool of ideas in his head and nothing’s set in stone. This could explain the changing of the seasons, the evolution of my character and the others, as well as the many conflicts we’ve encountered in life. He doesn’t have an ending in mind yet, which brings wonders as to when and how he’ll write my character out.

If we haven’t been put to paper yet, he’s got a knack for keeping all of these ideas in his head. What a wonderful imagination he possesses, although at times quite sadistic. I have a feeling he takes us with him into the night as he falls asleep and we’re exposed to his dreams and nightmares. No wonder why they say all good things must come to an end, his dreams are interrupted by the beginning of a new day. I don’t even want to describe the nightmares he has put us through. Just what exactly does he think about before he falls asleep?

I’m intimidated by the thought of actually living through another individual’s dreams, nightmares, and imagination. Although, he has done a wonderful job with my character since he gave me a set of flaws. These flaws serve as a reason to keep living in his fantasy world, working towards a happy ending.

Sleeping Beauty

“I am beautiful,” she said amongst the danger of hurtful words from her peers. For many years they had persecuted her for her many imperfections. They said she lacked any kind of beauty on the inside and out. She knew that she was beautiful, so she returned to her home to find that inner beauty.

Nobody was home. She gathered a few bottles of alcohol and a pair of scissors and retreated to the bathroom. She plugged the bathtub drain and poured each bottle of alcohol into the tub. After removing all of her clothes, she walked over to the bathroom mirror with the pair of scissors and began massaging each inch of her body with the pointed end of the blades. She watched the scissors dent her body, marking where she would cut. She knew that beauty was held within, so she angled the blades and started cutting into her skin. Blood dripped from her limbs, her chest, and her stomach down to the floor. Her inner beauty, obscured from society, was finally flowing out, she thought.

A smile was needed to showcase her true beauty before she bled out. She took the scissors and started cutting into the corners of her lips so that a smile would come to life. A wicked smile graced her face for the first time since she had seen life through the eyes of a child.

Afterwards, she stepped into the tub of alcohol and laid down to let the liquid seep into the cuts of her body. The vicious burn caused her to let out a violent scream that ripped an even bigger smile into her face. Within minutes from bleeding out and toxic exposure, she fell into a permanent sleep with her beauty circulating about the tub.

Sleeping Beauty.

Crayons of Chaos

I have drawn you into my existence with the fine point of my pencil. You’re here because I invited you into my life on the assumption that I’ve met somebody special. At the time of our acquaintance you were simply grey and white; there was no color to define who you really were and how you fit into my existence. As time went on, I colored you in by the day to represent how close we’ve gotten. My intentions were to create a beautiful masterpiece of artwork.

Orange: I colored in a shade of orange because you seemed so happy to be with me. Your enthusiasm was truly adored and orange is a vibrant color. It can’t be missed and orange has that appeal to really pull me in without missing you. Something seems so right about you. You have that potential to turn into a thing of beauty.

Yellow: I colored in the sun with an energetic yellow to shine right above you to compliment the true joy you bring into my life. The warmness of the color shining onto you really enhances the beauty of your smile.

Green: I colored you in with a green to symbolize our growth together. Green is soothing to the eyes, it doesn’t disturb. You have awaken me from my slumber as I was once descending into true darkness. I feel that you have magically healed me.

Blue: Blue was added to celebrate the trust we have achieved in each other. I have scavenged beyond your physical beauty and have discovered a true depth in you I was afraid didn’t exist. The others have been two-dimensional. The shining of the sun has a produced a silhouette, ripping out any darkness that you had inside yourself. There is no more darkness in you, only an ocean blue.

Red: Red was darkly colored into you as the crayon disintegrated into my hand rather fast to represent the love we share for each other. Blood circulates through your system to truly you bring you alive. I have seen a power in you, working with the shade of blue to pull me in. The powers of love and trust have radiated into my body, establishing a connection between us that we can share for eternity.

Purple: A royal purple was was surely imminent. I had no idea that we would fall in love like this. This is my declaration to you that I will always worship you as a Goddess until our dying day.

Black: I have seen you for what you really are. You are a cold monster whose heart only warrants a deep coloring of black until the crayon gets dull in my hand. I was so drawn to your beauty but your black heart is a true depiction of who you really are. How ignorant I was to interpret you as a beautiful masterpiece rich in color.

I’m struggling to erase you out of my existence.  I can only smear the colors, but your heart is still black and it will never change.