BLUE PROSES

DARK ARTISTS

                                                                            Dark Artist

We were given our canonical carte blanche with green feathers of go signals, like violet apples in the attic of a nun's holy temple~ mysterious, gothic ~ and the city fathers were promiscuous with their divine. We use our fingers as maximized horror paint ~ like a corporate credit card from a legal standpoint. I water paint using the juice of my lungs trying to breathe in the light from the sun~ I still see ~ the good in the bad, but that doesn't mean that I purposefully don't recognize. I heard a scripture on a podcast episode, he said, from the book of Holy, the Creator made a very beautiful world, but, it's also very dangerous. I felt the danger in my heartbeat. It's contagious and it's pandemic ~ not choosing doors, not even knocks or asks permission. It'll just roam there, touching and sewing our personal correspondence with needle and a thread made with the venom of a snake ~ without you knowing, you've been weaved and the last thing you know~ it's already cloudy and you've been painting dark since the day you've met your allies and beyond the surface web, an episode of sarcastic ray of unspent sunshine. And no matter how hard I dare, I can't seem to pick myself up off the sand of blues. My demons are lying in wait, they are grinning in the silhouettes and I can see them in the facade of my own glares, their polished fangs glinting, knowing today, it will be an easy kill. But tomorrow and for the rest of the weekends, could be the otherwise, and that is what keeps me painting tonight. Someone asked me, "why did you paint them?", I roamed my eyes with the slates and the canvas already marred with emotions and dirt, "I look at people in their eyes, and I just, paint what I see". and there, I looked at him again, to the person who asked me, and to my surprise, he wasn't there.