Saturday, May 7, 2016

A Visual Artist

Initial thought y Darlin Quiroz.

Find a vulnerable one. Find a photogenic one. Find a pretty girl and make her fall in love with you. Take pictures of her looking innocent and in love. Leave when your portfolio is done. 

Take polaroids of her while she sleeps, kiss her as if she's the sunrise in the morning. Capture all the seconds you see her falling in love with you. Make art with her smile. Use her body, use her gestures, use her mannerisms. Tarnish her innocence and put it in an exhibition. Capture her eyes, capture her essence, capture her to the core. Exploit the way she loves you, make use of the way she looks at you, then put it on display. Let her love you the way you love your camera.

Make it known to your viewer you capture all genres. Make your portfolio interesting. Photograph her laugh in black and white. Photograph her rosy cheeks as you play with her hair. Photograph the hurt on her face in full colors when you tell her that you can't do this anymore. Make sure the quality is of the finest when she's in a million pieces. Make sure you get the moment you truly destroy her, the moment you shatter any hope she had in the concept of love. Catch the glint in her eye when she realizes that she was never close to being your sun, that she never even had the luxury to be a part of your solar system. Don't just let it be known that you can capture love ; prove to your viewer that you are diverse.

Make sure to have photographic evidence of what you did to her. Make sure to dismantle her very being on film. Make sure the portrait of her grin matches the one of her agony. Let it be known to your audience that in actuality you are selfish. That your cosmos have no stars and that the ice has frozen over your sun millennia ago. That you are as hollow as your self portraits make you out to be. Let it be known that your photographs will have much more variety of emotions than you'll ever have. Let the world know that you're willing to make someone as vacant as you, just for your art. As vacant as your bed when you sleep at night, her warmth and unconditional comfort no longer there, yet her face grace your empty walls.

 When it's all over and it's all been said, she finally comes to your show. She sees herself at your gallery with her tears on sale and her affectionate eyes presented to the public. Don't forget to credit her torment. Don't forget to credit her love. But of course, credit yourself too. You caused the void in her heart and the war in her mind. You teared her spirit apart. Isn't it your work after all?

Congratulations to you, the visual artist : you get all the credit for breaking yet another heart. 

Friday, March 4, 2016

Sixteen Lines

Sixteen Lines is a story poem about a cocaine addict who falls in love with a succubus.


He thinks he's made of glass, but really he's made out of paper.
Everyone knows his sorrows and woes, everyone knows how his system works and goes. Yet at the same time he's a mystery, a walking paradox, a box of contradiction.
A suburb house in the big city. 

He meets this girl, he thinks she's pretty. 

He wants to be saved but has no savior. He doesn't understand that in this world you have to be your own hero. He chose to be the prince in distress, and found his "knight in shining armor" in a form of a lie. She sucked out his essence, absorbed his life, all with a smile on her face. It was okay for him though, he had made her smile. She had such false grace. 

She helps him out of his problems temporarily, destroying his demons for a short period of time.

He can't help but love her so, he doesn't want to wake up to the truth.
She hid the water he needed, she hid the honesty behind her back when he was dying of dehydration, when he was dying of thirst, when he needed to hear the truth the most even though it hurt. 
He's stuck on the lie, he's barely holding on and trying to survive.
He's lost himself in his infatuation and fascination with her, while she gives him just enough to keep him awake, just enough to keep him alive.

She comes into his life out of nowhere like a bright omen, being the enigma she is, she takes control of him. If only he knew the evils she had, he would have refused.

But it's okay though, he knows he's being used.

He thinks he can handle it, he thinks he's strong, he thinks he's made of glass.
But really it's paper, and with sixteen lines I can prove it, it's a fact,


Dedicated to L.K

Monday, February 1, 2016

Between Green and Violet

I feel blue. 

I feel all of it's shades. The turquoise and the aquamarine. 
The baby blues, and the dark teal. 
The azure and the lapis.
It feels like superficial serenity. 

The indigo seeps under my skin as I exhale the cerulean.
Sapphire grains under my fingernails. The color of aegean stains the bags under my eyes. 
There's residue of cobalt in my hair. I feel the heaviness of midnight's presence embedded in my being, and maya's presence embedded in my spirit.

It's all identical, but not quite. Not at all. 
Just like the sky, just like the arctic. 
It's similar but never the same.
There's a shade that separates navy to berry, 
stone to slate 
and denim to spruce.

My intentions feel like alice, but impact as prussian.
Even though I am as brute as oxford, I'd prefer to think I'm more of a periwinkle. 
My breath tastes as if  Ultramarine took her precious time to infiltrate my tongue, but smells as if Phthalo had his share on my palate instead.
Iris plays with the hairs on my arms, Celeste plays with my eyelashes.
Majorelle caresses my right cheek, Zaffre cleans the scrapes and wounds on my knees. 

Having my Bondi sing me to sleep, having my Brandeis to weep with me in my time of distraught and need. Having my Viridian tell me what I want to hear, having my Duke's ears and my Carolina's kisses. It all feels so good. It feels good having all of my blues in each of my senses.
Intertwined with the confusion and pleasure of knowing that I don't know, wherever they come from, I will allow them to consume me anyway, with no second thought.

Not questioning anything I say or do, just feeling and being. Experiencing, existing and seeing.

Palatinate lacks comprehension but makes up with her caress, with her touch, with her expression.
Even though my blues are but temporary serenity, they're still all mine to have. But colors change like the seasons, soon I'll be feeling red. 

Friday, December 18, 2015


I'm a pathological liar. 
I like to pretend. I like to start fires.
I'm a pyromaniac, 
I like white wine, Moscato.
I've been in love,
I've fallen out of love.
I'm afraid of the truth and tornadoes.
I like ice cream but I can't have milk, I'm allergic to certain fabrics.
I like touching silk.
I self loathe to no end, my self hatred grew a hand. It has paper, my fears gave it a pen.
I'm common, I'm predictable. 
I'm average, I'm invisible. 
I don't matter.
I'm just another person. 
I have many problems, not just one.
I'm a pathological liar, out of all of this, pick a lie.

Just one. 

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Damaging Man

Damaging man, damaging man,

You write down who I'm supposed to be,
and then erase every aspect,
every part that came with me.

Damaging man, damaging man,

You tell me I'll never be good enough for anyone to love and then tell me to doll up,
no fella wants to see an ugly duckling.

Damaging man, damaging man,

You say you'd kill anyone who'd try to touch your baby doll,
but how many baby dolls have you touched without consent?

Damaging man, damaging man,

You tell me how I should decorate my body to how you see fit,
but god forbid I dare touch my own temple and decorate it as I please.
Oh, that's right! I'm representing you, everyone will see.

Damaging man, damaging man,
That's not ladylike.
Oh no. I better not do it.
That's right, I have a gender role and I need to stick right to it.

Damaging man, damaging man,

I better not dare be a slut.
I better not be in charge of my own body and be a sexual being,  or I'll be tarnished. I won't be pure”.
You don't want to be known as the father of a whore.

Damaging man, damaging man,

I dare not raise my voice to you or any other man.
That is the golden rule.
Does that include the men that make me feel like an object?
The men that call me babysweetiecute little thing and why won't you fucking smile,
while I'm walking down the street, minding my own business,
hurrying to get home and hoping she was ugly anyway” doesn't follow me?

Damaging man, damaging man,

Having my own opinion is wrong.
I need to learn my place and be a good wife.
Have children, be nice.
Be sweet, be gentle, be weak, be caring.
Know my place, not be daring.
Never raise my voice to loud and always apologize for everything I do.
After all, being a woman is shameful.
My femininity is disgraceful.
I must be tasteful and ready to cater to the man.
Be mothering before being anything I want to be.
Be your definition of what a woman is supposed to be,
and stick to your plan.

Damaging man, damaging man,
Guess what?

I've had enough. You no longer are the main protagonist in my movie.
You no longer are the director, the writer or the starring role.
You are not even a side character. I refuse to give you any more control.
It's my time to write my own script, and believe me, I will.
My words are permanent, my words are mine.
I own all my ink plasters without shame.

You no longer dictate how I walk, talk or act.
You no longer damage me, damaging man.
This is my movie, I'm my own director.
I'll write off everything you began,
every painful detail will be erased, you did the mistake of using a pencil.
You did the mistake of underestimating me because of my gender.

Damaging man, damaging man,

It's my turn to write, and I'll be sure as hell to write it down with a pen.

Monday, November 2, 2015


My demons can swim, but they like to sink.
They're tugging at my toes. They have my leg.
Maday, we're going down! I hear one scream.
They drag me down with them. It's dark and I can't see.
Where am I? Where are they taking me? I can't breathe. But they can.
There's turbulance. So much turbulance.
I'm trying to fighting back.

Where I am, or wherever we're going, it's rough.
I feel the ocean, I can taste the salt. It's all so violent.
Around me, I can feel them pulling and pinching. They're trying to pull me apart, but not completely. Just enough to keep me alive. Down and down, I'm about to drown.
I hear their muffled laughs. Their taunting whispers. All muffled, but audible.
They open their mouths. I want to scream.
Their words feel like my father's belt.
Their words feel like all my insecurities rolled up in one.
Their words feel like my peers laughing at me for still being a kid in the 7th grade.
Their words feel like you telling me that I don't feel it too.
Their words sting like salt on an open wound.
Their words feel like hell, their words feel like when you say I lie to you.

We're still going down, I still don't know our destination.
All I know is I want to go home.
All I know is I miss you.
All I know is you've become all I know, and all I want to know.
Why, why, why do I keep on writing about you?
I know I'm just a pass time to you. I know I'm temporary to you. I know you care, but it's only for a little while. Everything is only for a little while.
I'll have to find a new home soon, I'll have to figure out how to survive without you.
I'll have to prepare myself for when you leave. I'll have to prepare myself to when I become homeless, once again.

Their tugging and pulling become harsher, it's never ending.
We keep going under. I want to reach you, I want to hold your hand.
I see it, but I'm not quite there yet.
I'm already on my way down, I'm trying to reach you, but I can't.
I'm trying. I need to get home. I'm fighting back.
I need to have you. I need to hold you. I need to go home. I need to sleep. I need to eat. I need to know you're okay. I need to see your face.
I manage to reach you, I'm almost home. They keep tugging and pulling.
I can't fucking breathe. Why won't they leave me alone?

I'm already on my way down, I'm so close to air, I'm so close to you.
But I can't. I can't let them take you down with me. They can destroy me, but not my nest.
Not the only thing in this entire world that keeps me sane, that helps me rest.
I'm already on my way down, I don't know why you keep holding my hand above the surface when you know what's down there, but give me a heads up when you decide to let me drown.