Throbbing hearts and bleeding inks

How beautiful is the mind's eye? We connect dots with acrylic and canvas, understand the meanings behind the curves and crevices. Nod our heads to the smell of oil paint on the antiques at the gallery, but fail to comprehend that a white flag does not only signify victory, but an act of  surrender too. If paintings could say everything on a 24 × 40 cm board, I would be the opposite of not being an artist. The flow, the glow, the soul, the whole, the excitement, the tranquility amidst fulfilment, O me, O God! Paint me a rose and thorn my stems- leave me imperfect. Wall my walls with humanity and save me an inn to live in. At least thence I would tell my stories outside a frame. Outside acrylic. Outside canvas. Howbeit that a painting be more peaceful than sunshine and safer than moonlight yet spring from a taunting mind? Maybe art cares less about our insecurities. Maybe she does care. Maybe the pose of the wired lady with beads on her waist and ankle is erotic rather than an epit...

A blue weaver bird perched atop the branch I sat beneath. I shuddered at the jumbled words in my mind, Pinching my self for an inspiration As the pages laid bare and virgin. She broke the silence with a chirp- Need a translator so badly right about now. Sounded Greek at the beginning, But tickled my ink with an inspiration in my heart. Oh how I poured out myself unto those pages! Like red wine, offered to the gods, I flanked my being carelessly without apologies, Recklessly with a death wish. I was a cat a few seconds ago- I had nine lives. As in a video game, I knew I would return to life after every bleed-out, So I never held back my dagger- I was an antagonist. I stabbed them pages not once, Not twice, not thrice, I watched them bleed in the ice, It was a cold murder on a chilly night, The cellulose blood warmed me fine, And hugged my palms tight. Was unperturbed by their wails, Not that I am heartless, Or never discerned the pages' frails, I just co...