March 31, 2013 § 9 Comments
I am the algebra, the meaningless numbers you cannot define.
I am the pain at the loss of something you wanted badly.
I am the brain chemicals which make you panic and act stupid.
I am the serial killer, the stranger in the dark.
I am the calculation, the girl who knows how to set things right.
I am the joy of reaching a far-fetched destination.
I am the much-needed sanity on those long-nights.
I am the daughter, sister, friend and lover. I provide meaning.
I am naive and inquisitive.
I am limitless and i have my boundaries.
I know it all, and i am still learning.
I am the one who is suicidal
and i am the one still alive.
October 9, 2012 § 34 Comments
The artist is the creator of beautiful things.To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex and vital.
When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art, is quite useless.
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
January 7, 2012 § 4 Comments
She opens her mouth to speak, but the words don’t come out
Her speech is faltering. And embarrased.
But she IS sincere!
First she has to tell you that there is a reason, a justification
That you always sought for but missed in her.
Sometimes she couldn’t explain, and sometimes you didn’t want to understand.
Second, a caution, a request.
She doesn’t want an answer.
Answers corrupt, and sometimes hurt.
Her questions are beautiful enough to keep her enchanted.
She conjured a whispered affection, fondness in her shadows-
Spoken with dry lips, parched and devoid.
Her averted eyes and apparent hopes
Gleamed in her eyes that sometimes don’t shine.
In her mind you’re a destiny,
just not the one she took home but hoped sincerely!
She would never say it in words again
She cares too much to see you drown in this pit.
But she’s been telling you for a while
With the way she leans in the doorway
Always in the midst of lights and her gloom
Where her shadow meets yours, becoming one.