A shot of a narcissitic case of neurosis @ 10:53 PM

My words are still-life. From observation, I paint the portraits of things that stay still long enough to make an impression. I borrow letters from colors and lines, creating some lingering silhouettes of fallacy that carve accidental three dimensional forms in someone else' nightmare-ridden mind. I could deliver lines with a perfectly slurred tendency, held back by visions of infusing tainted thoughts that were never meant to be created. When I choose my words carefully, with eyes discernible of all possible combination of mistakes, I might as well kiss truth goodbye. I may paint a vision of equilibrium, balance, even harmonic rhythms from an amalgam of words, but I can destroy the canvas just as easily.

I observe, translating what I see into spilled poetry of street signs, gray eyes, and internal rhymes. My words are pictures of stories that a twenty year old has seen, familiar and unmistakably innocent.They are shadows from 3 am hallucinations, quick glances of shirt collars and bent wrists, pen markings, and gaze collisions. They speak of songs and psalms, melodies and elegies, of things forgotten, remembered, and often barely noticed. Inescapable are the trains of lyrics that dance as smoothly as they are sung.

My words are here to stay.

Labels: contemplation, Random, Self