accept yourself, art, aspiring author, blogging, flawed, follow me, i am myself, my blog, poems, poetry, WIP, writing

Too True

Tongue tied, tipping into my own defense,

wrapping my arms around myself.

Cover up my scars,

deny my lies.

Try to destroy everything else.


You can burn the papers all you want,

They’ll never quite disappear.

And you can never burn the truth,

Until it’s completely scarred,

but you’re still a criminal.


Everybody else,

they do it so easily.

Hold their secrets so close

Never letting go.

Denying it all.

You can never figure out how it goes.


So you try to emulate their easy smile,

but it’s slipping down down down.

And you act as they don’t bother you,

but it’s all a lie… lie… lie…

You’re such a little liar.


And you can burn all of the evidence.

Turn the house into smoke.

Put your cards in the fire,

but they’ll never go away.

Their existence is carved in stone.

And you’re going to have to deal with it all.


Their eyes don’t betray them,

as much as your own do.

Can’t figure out why you cannot hide.

It’s like your body betrays you

and your heart wants to be seen,

bleeding on your arm in vain.

They take you for all that you have.


I have written down my sins,

I know all of my flaws in length.

I have burned my heart,

tore it to pieces.

Tried to hide behind it’s shattered lies.


You can burn your tears,

That wont stop you from crying

You can twist and wring your hands,

You can stop them with your shouting.

Hold them back with your anger.

But they will always get out.


You’re responsible for yourself.

No one else owns you.

You have to own up, to what you have done.

You’ll never destroy the truth,

You must accept it.


You can burn the papers,

doesn’t stop it from being true.

art, aspiring author, blogging, my blog, poems, poetry, writing

ART: Try it Sometime

the fingers rest on a dirtied page,

covered in ink.

Pencil marks across their world.

Their sight blurred for staring too long.

Looking for something they tried,

tried so desperately to put down.

they rub their eyes, the ink

staining their face

the pencil is falling to the floor.

Forgotten for the moment.

It’s not finished, not by half.

It’s filled with potential,

with a half-lived Dream.

Thoughts resound in their ears.

Do this. Do this.

Add just a little more texture here.

Make it Come Alive.

See how it moves?

Music is playing somewhere,

somewhere too far away to register.

The Senses are filled with sight and thought.

There is nothing Else.

tongue, nose, the smell of paper,

the sooty taste of the lead.

It’s something else, huh?

You put this down,

You created it.

but the ever-persistent question,

is it all you thought it would be? 

Or is it more?

Did it manifest into something?

By its own design more beautiful

than your own mind can comprehend.

True artist is never what the artist sees,

it is what as the final product,

the Art has become.

Stop thinking to yourself,

and try it sometime.