If your eyes are blind to art, then you will never know the power of self expression. The beauty of self-determination. The utter pull of self-sacrifice and irreversible effects of self-medication.
If your eyes are blind to art, then you will never solve your formulae and never know your soul-mate.
If your eyes are blind to art, life is nothing but life.
If your eyes comprehend art,
Life is a beautiful maze
Architecture is nature
Business is a fine dance
And even math
Even math is a beautiful
Curve that arches cross
Your lover’s back.
I wish I was the type of poet
who wrote about the beauty of life
like when the sun slips between my eyelids,
introducing a new dawn, or
when corollas gradually unfurl
for the day like sinners on their knees
opening to God. But I’m not.
I’m too broken right now
and my shards are too sharp
to put back together.
And I’m too numb right now
to allow the rays to seep through me
and fill my heart with the light.
You were suppose enhance my life.
Not lock it up in an unlit casket
and tell me to hold on to hope a little longer
while my colors run dry and die
and yours remain arched over heaven.
I suppose I have no one to blame,
but this unyielding obsession
to be wanted,
to be loved,
to be a part of your world
because mine seemed so insignificant.
I miss being like the wild burning sun
that climbs the wall of night
or that peels petals until flowers bloom.
Don’t think you can continue to keep me
locked away forever, though,
because forever will quickly show you
how dark these days can really be.
Careful how you treat a writer;
they’ll immortalize you like no other artist.