Fear

Tiny Red Faces stare up at me
with each tiny slice, they are set free.
Small scarlet faces bleed rivers of red
they scream to me saying It's all in my head
Tiny Red Faces remind me i'm here,
these tiny red faces are what I most fear.

a really crappy poem thing idk

nostalgia ran down the glass
time passed.

the light hit the leaves in such a way,
you would think it was summer on the cold winter day

The iridescence pressed itself against the pane
It danced down the window, dying at the frame.

I watched with great horror, but spoke with great ease,
because the first days of spring were only a tease.

a poem(:

your scent clings to me like
cigarettes
i remenisce the beauty of what was
while the awakening of what is
scratches my conscience like
broken glass
i need the past
i need you.

New Works

I think Nu-Works is a wonderful program at Booker T Washington. It is a class that allows social activity that also allows us to learn at the same time. I really enjoy the collaboration, and how we always incorporate all the clusters in one class. Some drawbacks are the organization of the class. It gets tumultuous sometimes, and discipline/organization would allow this class to suffice.

Inspiration

Insipration is the derivative of everything. Without it, we would be hindered to progress artistically, mentally, socially, etc. Some of my insipration for my art is the music I listen to and the books I read. It varies, really. Some artists that inspire me inculde Andy Warhol, Los Campesinos!, Sublime, and Kurt Vonnegut. They allow me to find the artist within myself. What or who inspires you?

Favorite song

Some of my Art..

Right: "Things are different under the surface." Surface of
water=stereotypes. This was done in marker, with the water and woman's face in watercolor. Her hair was done in oil pastel. There is also some pen in the picture.

Left: Bigger one was done in charcoal pencil. Her body language implies her unwillingness to believe the lie she is trying so hard to emphasize: "Love is a beautiful thing."

stuff.

LITERATURE:

The woman ahead of her wore a dull bruise that was slapped against her cheek. It shouted at the mirror in sharp words that seemed to seap through her pale skin. Victoria conveyed a sense of despair as she held her breath. This was mundane, and soon enough, Brendon would troop in, infatuated with sorrow and pity. He interrupted her thoughts that scattered her head, with a hand that slid across her stomach. "I'm sorry." The words echoed through her head in consideration. "Are you?" Victoria questioned as she saw his beautiful eyebrows sink in a deep and angry fashion. "You know I am, Victoria;" Brendon started defending his actions. "you know how I am." He was almost pleading her approval. She turned, and at the same time Brendon forcefully pulled her against his bear chest. The kiss was beyond passionate. It held anger, regret, and love and expressed more than words, and more than the pictures they had earlier gazed at when they had felt love. Now they laugh in the face of the futile word that mocks their ambition. The same ambition that keeps them going, and whispers little words of hope and assurance in Victoria's credulous ears. He released his grip, as she backs up and tilts her head in amusement. This was someone she loved; she knew she felt it for him somewhere in her cold heart. He endured so much pain onto her, and dragged her into an endless sea of misery and hopelessness. Yet somehow, she still felt emotionally attached to him. He was the only one that stuck with Victoria, and part of her was inside of him. If she let him go, she let go part of herself, a big part which made up the the person she was today. Oh, how she fantasized about collapsing into nonexistence. As her thoughts slowly trickled out of her mouth, she found herself talking to Brendon in slow whispers, but only one word could escape. "Why?"