Posthumous #quotes #artist #art



Everything in our lives is writeable
But did we script in free-will?
Without recognizing consequences
I talk to God but the sky is empty
I followed philosophers who were out-dated

My lovers do not know how to
Protect me, from my worst enemy
Who is the breaking of idealism
The broken wheel of pragmatism
And cynicism of aging in the school

Of real-world hard knocks
Can you understand? That we loved
Our tragedies as poor substitutes to living?
That we needed deeper lows to
Experience and appreciate higher highs

What is an artist, they are who
Most desire the things that will destroy
Them in the end, like a fanaticism to beauty.

Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted ##SundayBlogShare #poetry


Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted

Someone, somewhere
Can understand me
I’ll never meet them
Not be loved like they could love me

I’ve so much to learn
About finding the right people to love
God, but life is loneliness
Despite all friendships made

Inspite of grinning faces and passing stages
‘Parties’ with no purpose in truth
Loneliness of the soul well
It’s an artistic condition some


Suffer from it more than others
Like allergies, a more unique brain
Someone, somewhere
Has a brain a little more like mine

I’ll never meet them, but sometimes
Knowing that they exist, helps me
Get through the day, writing
Like an unabridged journal from me to you


It’s overpowering and horrible to be self-conscious
Making up narrative and plots, inventing them
All the time, like spirit-chatter
Why so festive, why so gloomy
Because my inner voice is powerful.

Author’s Note:

This is a tribute to all human beings who suffer from the condition known as “poet’s brain”, please share it on facebook, twitter and other social media. There is some evidence that writers, artists and especially poets have more challenges regulating their emotions, lifestyle, anxiety and subsequent consequences of struggles with mental illness sometimes leading to breakdowns, and even to premature deaths by suicide.
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Featured Artist:




Our talents were exceptional, and invisible
Deviant in our lack of public merit
Or civic utility, we were paranoid
Maybe suffering from delusions of grandeur
It was expected, our heroine was art
Photography, poetry, music, painting


We were illiterate in living
But so full of life, so wide open with love
Our circumstances were humble
Our personalities sensitive, we had
The potential to become martyrs & lonely
Our class was a privilege in knowing
How to suffer, suffer embarrassment, learn humility
Empathy, by possessing nothing


But the faint property of our own creative genius
Our families may not have spoken openly
About our sickness, of our obsession with
The search for beauty, for our sequence
Of originality, we were broken, unable to earn
A pit-bull’s living, to be a good rat


Our infatuations felt as beacons of our muse
Our drug was as dangerous, bi-polar birthright
Born creative, our life-expectancy was lowered
We who don’t drink, might still sure like the dark continent
Known as chocolate, anything to keep us up at night
Registering the failings that make us whole
Discovering the first love that could not die.

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Sugar is a Necessary Prey

Hourly the lamp headed-nymphs Whisper to me through The lily root of my subconscious There is little shelter From the flutes of language Fish-mouthed mantras of poetry They flame in me frog-hoped The reebit of time’s fugitive Unfaithfulness to the … Continue reading