Art

A-Z Challenge: Adult A

Angry Masturbation

It lingers – within the well
of his tenacity
Outstretched fingers, widely spread
Palm flat and pushing
Against unyielding chalky skin
Any moment now could give rise
To a silken Jackson Pollack
Life imitating Art

 

 

 

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Budding reminder

As I sit in the cool evening air

Watching the petals fall to the ground

Hardened pink buds curled tight

Against the licking of the breeze

You rise to the top of my mind

pink_rose_rosebud_723688_h

Source:Β http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=723688&searchId=0d4d9edc17abb9ccf4ea36642b083bd4&npos=51

I’m only sleeping

Glassy eyes devoured by time

Sweet caress to you align

For years I have sat in silence

Whilst moss enveloped my soul

Tread carefully across my old limbs

My little feathered invaders

For tonight I am only sleeping

A Loose Thread

 

We sit

And pick, at the delicate edges

This tapestry of ours adorned with such wonder

Filled with passion

Depicting all signs of beautiful life

Yet stillΒ 

We sit with sharpened needles

Poised and ready to attack any slight blemish

Ready with clambering fingertips

To pinch

And pull,

to pounce on the slightest stray thread

Eager to draw the cotton through our teeth

And break any notion of unravelling

Though we both know that I cannot resist

The lure of the loose thread

The silent pop as the loop sinks and disappears under the weave

Destruction by my own hand

Is never as sweet as simply enjoying our sumptuous existence

Yet still I roll the silver thread around my finger

And lightly tug

A dish best served hot

I offered you my heart on a plate
Hot, heavy…heaving
Sizzling full of passion
Yet you refused

It was too much for you
Too rich
Too raw

You just didn’t have the stomach

But with time passing you feel the urge
to re-evaluate
Crave the flesh of desire
Ponder your transformed taste buds
Regret not sinking your teeth into the unknown

So I offer you my heart
Tepid, tired…temperamental
Congealed in place

I wince as you lift the knife

To be a real writer

A real writer bleeds onto the page.

That’s what they said.

A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .

Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.

Only then shall I feel like a writer.