Wordless Wednesday
Art
NaPoWriMo – Lune
Adult Art
Furious motion
produces
art alike Pollock
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A-Z Challenge: Adult A
Angry Masturbation
It lingers – within the well
of his tenacity
Outstretched fingers, widely spread
Palm flat and pushing
Against unyielding chalky skin
Any moment now could give rise
To a silken Jackson Pollack
Life imitating Art
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Budding reminder
As I sit in the cool evening air
Watching the petals fall to the ground
Hardened pink buds curled tight
Against the licking of the breeze
You rise to the top of my mind
Source: http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=723688&searchId=0d4d9edc17abb9ccf4ea36642b083bd4&npos=51
I’m only sleeping
Glassy eyes devoured by time
Sweet caress to you align
For years I have sat in silence
Whilst moss enveloped my soul
Tread carefully across my old limbs
My little feathered invaders
For tonight I am only sleeping
A Loose Thread
We sit
And pick, at the delicate edges
This tapestry of ours adorned with such wonder
Filled with passion
Depicting all signs of beautiful life
Yet still
We sit with sharpened needles
Poised and ready to attack any slight blemish
Ready with clambering fingertips
To pinch
And pull,
to pounce on the slightest stray thread
Eager to draw the cotton through our teeth
And break any notion of unravelling
Though we both know that I cannot resist
The lure of the loose thread
The silent pop as the loop sinks and disappears under the weave
Destruction by my own hand
Is never as sweet as simply enjoying our sumptuous existence
Yet still I roll the silver thread around my finger
And lightly tug
A dish best served hot
I offered you my heart on a plate
Hot, heavy…heaving
Sizzling full of passion
Yet you refused
It was too much for you
Too rich
Too raw
You just didn’t have the stomach
But with time passing you feel the urge
to re-evaluate
Crave the flesh of desire
Ponder your transformed taste buds
Regret not sinking your teeth into the unknown
So I offer you my heart
Tepid, tired…temperamental
Congealed in place
I wince as you lift the knife
You lead and I’ll follow
You the musician,
myself the artist and I
will draw to your tune
To be a real writer
A real writer bleeds onto the page.
That’s what they said.
A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .
Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.
Only then shall I feel like a writer.
Ginni bites! 
