Art has to be

Humanity believes

that art has to be beautiful

like a Hummingbird basking under the sun

and art has to be unique

like meteorites dissecting the sky in brillant shades

art has to be pure

like amethyst re-crystallised in an open furnace

art has to be in Galleries

like the cherubic oil on canvas in the louvre

art has to be worth millions of pounds

like a wedding ring made from dinosaur’s fossil

and art has be created by genius

like Yiruma on his Compose of “River flow in you”

I believe

that the source of art is most impure .

It is dirty

It is unbecoming

and it could be worth nothing

but most of all, I believe

true art is a journey to enlightenment

It summarisizes a story that is told

through the eyes of one person,

it’s creator.

Smile a little because, you’re art.

Pisces fever

Talk in my face with a smile, with a smirk

I would never control you like that

cry me a river so I can drown you in it

It’s so good, it’s so bad. I can’t decide

all the wavelengths that’s crosses my head

I am tired. I’m tired of mistakes I keep choosing to fix

Chose your words very careful around me

come in my space but leave that energy outside

I DGAF if you think you know everything

Cross me once, I say oh no shame on you

cross me twice, you’ve got voodoo in your name

hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

I say nothing and you peg it for weakness

I’m ghosting right now , you can join me or leave

You can’t sense my vision so let me do it all by myself

I don’t like you today, maybe try me tomorrow

depends on which of me you met today

I don’t mean to hurt you but I will if you let me

I’m artsy. I’m empathetic. I’m pisces

I can be just whatever I want

please hold back your opinions and doubt

I’ll never say I told you so to your face

I’ll never look to your eyes and say you were wrong

but if you’ll play games, I’ve got a license to play

Thanks for the advise but I’ll take it from there

drop all manipulative tricks at the door

grew up around it so I can smell it from miles and miles

Don’t ever, don’t ever try to control me

Don’t ever, don’t ever try to lie

I’ll forgive you but know you are dead to me forever

I don’t mind being hated for me

but I hate being being misunderstood so much

love me or hate me but please don’t misunderstand

I love you today but I can’t guarantee tomorrow

take me as I am or just leave me alone

I know i’ll be fine with or without out you. it’s all the same

No, It’s probably best if you leave

you’ll probably offend me if you stay

blunts make better friends than people anyways

I say nothing but I can feel every little thing

been crying all day but I don’t know what’s wrong

this whole solar system just loves to play on my nerves

Sit back and observe everything around me

many will come my way but there’s room for just one

what can you do for me that i can’t myself

Don’t ever try to make me face reality

i’ll get things done in my pace, in my time

i’m not put together, Neptune knows I’ll never claim to be

I started writing this and i couldn’t stop

it’s got me feeling some airy type of way

Can’t put it to words but pisces fever is a vibe.

Earth’s art

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

The song of my dreams is but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s hymn.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

you’ll need a kaleidoscope to view my art

It is elusive even in umbra lighting

But it is enough the way it is

because I was made in Earth’s treasure chest

where no two narratives are the same

The Garden

It’s the beginning of yet another week, I know

I know the dark calls to you sometimes

I know you walk down roads you know you shouldn’t

I know you observe your reflection through a jumble of shards

I know you’re worn out, tired of reliving patterns of painful choices

I sense you feel hollow at times

like life is teasing you, dancing in front of you,

but escaping you somehow

i know you live in the disconnect between where you are

and what’s happening outside of you

i know how much it hurts to live there, in the divide

between what you feel you are, and what you wish you could be

The sun has kissed your skin and you have inhaled it with complete trust

and you sometimes move without knowing what’s next

at times it feels paralysing to live with yourself.

I know you’ve worked so hard to control the outcome of your life

that you forget to meet yourself in the quiet and breath yourself full again

that you live in the shallow end and you forget to go deep,

breath deep ujjayi

you forget there is wealth of abundance and trust in you

i know there are places in yourself that you do not love

the parts you wrestle away

you visit them them from time to time, hoping they’re not there

i know you long to live in bliss

and when you arrive there you are so alive as if everything around you

is telling you yes, you’re home.

but i know shadows come while you’re asleep

and drag you down the familiar landscape of fear

I know you wonder if the light will ever return

because you’re tired of this upbeat dance between the two worlds.

you’re learning to taste heaven, grown wings

you’re accepting the difference

between sun soaked mornings and dark forests

you are human my dear and are allowed to be in both places

you are not damaged

you are not failing

you are allowed to be lost in dark rivers

be gentle when doubt comes, when fear chokes

when darkness debilitates you

spend special care to cultivate the garden of love when you come across these dark corridors.

know that you are offered the chance to tend your garden

the dark offers you a chance to love all the places you’d never dare

all the places you curse

where we deprive ourselves of love is where we need it most

when the dark comes , tell it what it what it wants so badly to hear,

You are loved.

A page from my book

If you want it to be

Life can be both a blessing

and a lesson

But,

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened.

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and others have shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

Crucifying oneself is the prince of bio-weapon

One sting, eternally addicting to the soul

Seemingly infectious it is too

that’s why I easily scare on my walk alone.

The song of my dreams is none but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with incoherent karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s song.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

yet you’ll need a kaleidoscope of sorts to view my art

It is enough the way it is

because I was made for Earth’s treasure chest

Every form of Love

If love was a palette

it would have a secondary hue

mixture of red tinted with yellow

warm and affectionate like the sun reflecting off the red sea

If love was a song

It wouldn’t sound like an earworm

a mixture of jazzy blues and trap culture

like a glitch in time that couldn’t be perfectly translated

if Love had a frequency

it would bounce off a high cord of vibration

above the energy of gratitude

but slightly below the quintessence of peace

if love was a person

they would touch, feel and gift love freely

probably die on a cross to proof

he bleeds human but with a glorious heart

if love was a book

it would be on every library shelf

a real page turner packed with unpredictable desire

probably earn the best selling book of all times

if love was a movie

it would be a classic animation

featuring magic and wonder

chasing the audience to tears time and again before the end credits roll by.

If love had a silhouette

It would be broad with a soft touch

hard yet distinctly malleable

like a night under the Cupressus tree

If love was a flower

It would be a purple orchid

the envy of hummingbirds in a wheat field

buds paddling through the sunny day’s breeze.

If love had eyes

it would triumph fear’s greyish mirage

hopeful and late at it’s owns wake

bibbing in shades of black and white

Though to be honest

I don’t know the scent of love

I couldn’t describe him if he was my mirror reflection

I may have never felt the way I imagine it to be

all I do is fantasize in shades of black and white with grey borders.

Sincerely, your non-lover.

Mathyr

He just doesn’t know how

to turn a blind eye

to the needy

and

braves through

the scourging sun

to rain down favour

from the universal angel of love

 

 

 

 

Tattooed to the back of his hand

is a sketch of the world.

He knits together

the tapestry of lost hope.

At daybreak

his blood

washes the street 

His is the tabernacle

of ceremonial thanksgivings

 

 

 

For the torture that life foretells

He is well equipped

An unrepentant saint

neither lost

nor

destroyed

his heart weeps daily

for the complacent distortion of universe

An unfortunate dystopic reality

 

 

 

To the citizens of mankind

he greets with shalom

The lord’s prayer

is

his bread

there is no greed

no careless trickery

To all those willing to listen

he invites into oneness in his house

 

 

 

 

The legend of the moon,the lights of the sky

heralds from this Mathyr’s tale

Today he was stripped

Crucified,

he let out a wail

that shakes beneath the earth.

He is crowned the lord of all lords

and showers his mercy even more radiantly 

 

 

Silent eyes

I was standing at the front of my mat with my feet rooted to the earth, much like a woman with silent eyes waiting for hours at a bus stop.

Prudently listening and smiling, like her cares had been washed away with dunes on midnight’s wave and she didn’t have anywhere to be. Though she receives no visual input, her ear are busy and constantly overwhelmed.

She could hear the school children chattering, snacking, doing what school kids do. The cars swoon past her, like they were racing against the impending mortality of their desires.

Today she met me, and I met her. neither of us could see each other, and it was perfect that way. Her whites of her eyes had turned to the heavens as if she was permanently searching for a starlight. Mine were shut, temporarily.

I sensed her graceful smile and her kind colours that illuminated from her fragile soul.

Her silent eyes saw everything and reflected nothing. Her ears followed the every sparrow’s song, every lingering moment. Every cutthroat Innuendo. She held the implosive secrets of many-a-man that transformed into feelings that could set her ablaze.

She spoke to me like a long-time friend, her successes and anecdotes of her pain. I was moved by her words of wisdom and the passion in her voice. Sometimes she weaved her secrets between the strands of poetry.

Finally, my ears were overwhelmed too so I opened my eyes to greet her face. It was then she told me the most important thing that contained no words, and a smile that stretched from her lips to the edge of her silent eyes.

Delilah’s wish

She waited at the foot of mother’s rocking chair, next to the polka- dot curtains, cuddling her head between the flesh of her palms.

Mother was 122 years old with the smile of a 6 year Mädel. Her silver hair was ankle-long and growing. She reminded Delilah of an orange orchid that blossomed in spring.

Mother always told her that if she wished hard enough, it will come true. Think of it as the source of your soul’s turnover, she said. So every second she held a wish, like a golden goose egg on a Mughal-gem spoon. Her wishes bloomed into ideas that transformed into pictures that broke out of the oasis of her mind.

Everyday she was living her best wishes within herself, disconnected from both bright and shadowy side of the world.

Outside, the ground was a muddy mess of earth, the trees twisted their roots deep into the malleable soil, claiming their territory while providing nurture for the wrmy worms and beetles. The rain had poured for weeks, and even now, there seemed no sign of dryness.

Delilah had stayed in. Albeit her love for the unsynchronised kiss of the soluble element on her coarse skin, seeing mother’s radiance was a far pleasurable experience.

Delilah pulled out her book of colours tucked beneath her pillow and began to scroll like she always did. The moment she sprays her colours is when her cheeks are flushed, her body squirms with joy and her frosty soul melts into a healing orange puddle.

She would colour in her dreams, and then paint herself when she’s awake. Her aesthetic was more-so an extension of herself than a mask

Today she painted freshly baked banana-cupcakes on the stove. Windsor, the tabby cushioned between two flower pots. She painted her mother looking out the curtains watching the rain drip drip with wonder in her eyes. Delilah imagined she was thanking God for the gift of the seasons.

When she was done, she proudly handed her masterpiece to mother. She couldn’t have wished for anything more than the truth her sketches revealed even without tracing a single ink to paper.

Bubbles & Sunshine

The yellow pages of life does not promise a forecast of  bubbles and sunshine. Many times we venture to different paths and end up toiling unsuccessfully. We take risks,  casting all including our soul into the wind, and still  it makes no substantial difference.

Being unsuccessful is a tedious lifestyle nobody chooses, rather it chooses many. Sometimes doing what you love combined with  maximal effort is not enough.  Often I’ve wondered if i’m really that bad a blogger, sure I can admit that I don’t pay attention to details and several times I was ready to abandon my journey  and cut my losses.

So why haven’t I vanished from the blogosphere?

Well if there is something that I’m even worse at than writing, it is quitting. Never done it. mmhmm, well maybe that one time.

But who am I kidding? The exhilaration I get when the nerve endings on my fingertips presses against the keyboard is beyond comparison —no pun intended—and I especially love making people wonder; “what the F is this post/poem about?”.

They say people won’t listen to you until you’re worth listening to, but no matter how good, bad or funny one is, determination always changes the rules of the game. Determination is what makes me a force to be reckoned with.

And art exists in every level of the ecosystem. One can ignore it, but surely can’t deny it, even the way people speak is art. If you’ve witnessed two individuals or clans from a region speaking the same language, then you understand it. Bottomline is, so I’m a bit of a messy frantic misfit, In the end, I’ll write what is good and pleasing to my heart, because what my ventricles forcefully eject through my Aorta to sustain me in the land of living, itself is Art.

And now I’m done writing.

Just kidding.