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There is a place- A cliff- That artists tend to go to explore; to create And often throw themselves off of People label it insanity But wouldn't you, too, Allow yourself to trip and fall
Dear Reality, We create a world, a world of equality but are warned society will break it down into insanity. We wrap the universe in a bow and tear our own hearts out for the world to devour.
Here we feel trapped Women, Workers, Minorities Artists
The purest of thoughts are the ugliest in kindThe prettiest of faces have the darkest of mindsIt is a fact, or maybe a foul But the most hurt of people have the brightest of smiles
Within the abundance of thoughts in our minds We categorize every knowledgeable memory for use of another day.
a quiet afternoon, a mug of coffee encased in both hands. i stare into the circle of beige, at the steam coming out of the brim, and i watch my anxieties evaporate. a blue turntable,
I was always an artist first but words were just a new kind of paint Not so much a visual medium and not so much music but something in between With words dripping out of my fingers
He is so handsome, so tall, and so smart. His deep brown eyes, and his furrowed brow. Makes your heart into clay, and clay into your heart. He walks over to were you are creating, yes, even now.
I saw you lying prostrate in your bed of bones and crumbs
They say life is like a book of handwritte
I'm not a "girl" That's not my label
I saw ribs, I saw bones, I ad-libbed, My lungs filled I with stones. I saw her eyes; Green like the sea, Looking up at cloudless skies; Bel esprit. Who; Can I be?
I hear church bells ringing when I know there are none; here we mark the time by the passing of trains on rusty railroad tracks. The solitude is tangible in the air, thick as quicksand.
Singers, celebrities, artists, Concerts, shows, events… Famous or unknown, Advocates or critics, Succeeds or failures. The importance of promotion, Right management and development.
Art relates to me. Art is the creative skill and imagination presented to the world. Every stroke of paint an artist adds on a canvas, every stitch a designer puts in a piece of clothing
The idea lies inside the self, For we believe the universe is inside of us. We want to explore all we experience, Because we without ends want to understand why everything outside us exists.
A rock in a sea of pebbles, freedom overthrown by rebels. Living in a world that is our own, Painted gold by traveling stone. All that I own is my pig and my cart, bringing out the forgotten art.