Your web-browser is very outdated, and as such, this website may not display properly. Please consider upgrading to a modern, faster and more secure browser. Click here to do so.
I wish I could write about
how you make me feel
I mean,
everything
but
the words that
come out of my pen and hand,
the words that
come from my mind
are just so cliche
and don’t match
these bouncing emotions
in my chest
and all I can write
are these stupid poems
with words that
I can never be proud of
because they never say enough
they never say enough.
I have bitter feelings about things that Asians overly adore.
Like Wong Fu Productions.
Great work, but too many people like it.
What I think people forget about art is that
although art is a composition of firm technique, observers tend to forget the effort and knowledge that goes into a piece—the millions of bits of cerebral cells that decided to collide at an exact moment, cells and chemicals that stem from technical know-how and emotional response to a given situation, and most of all, the will to enact on them, in addition to the layers of tumultuous time that was invested from practice until the level skill that is recognized as “now.”
In essence,
We tend to admire a work in its present for its genius, but tend to forget to give credit to its cumulative past and toiling hours of craftsmanship.
I brought her to the blank canvas of our white bed sheets and rubbed the pigments of love against her smooth palette as she stroked the brush to confirm the texture to the tip. We were going to paint together, the scene and evidence of our desires with the warm body shades of lust. We paused and our eyes met with pupils seeking out an illumination of insight.
Mused by the arousal, I proceeded to whisper what I would do next, beginning to trace the outline of her breasts to the very tips of her nipples. The engagement of skin upon skin excreted the scent of inspiration from our faces—mine to her hips.
She got onto her knees, saying it was her turn to cover the bottom end. It was pleasure, but pleasure was enough. I pushed her to the canvas. We spilled the ink. She cried, the emotions of her heart, smearing the water paint of her sweat against the page. Oiled, and wet, we brushed the sheet together, tossing and turning a masterpiece in the making.
I slowed down, and shared the touch of smooth to rough textures as she grazed them with her fingertips. We craved the exhilaration and thirsted for each other’s embrace as we ran our hands against each other’s skin. We moaned out our troubles and pounded out the stress of just being alive for a reason that gave us one to. We laughed and fell over with the sweet stick of creative passion still on us.
Together, we were each other’s reason for the color in our lives.
Our love is a peculiar thing:
It’s scary because everything is too natural
and I remember her asking me
if I ever thought about
how everything is just so easy
and I said it was frightening
because we are both new to these
uncharted waters
that are too clean and clear to believe
since we’re so consistently surrounded
by the city’s murkiness
but I set aside my fears
and reconcile with my doubts
and disbelief at this newfound
fantasy that I just can’t refuse
Because you see,
it’s chemistry
and we got the
right formula for love:
Just the right amount of
similarities but just enough
to reach equilibrium with our
different mental electronegativity
We attract, and
that keeps us solid
as ionic bonds
kept together by each other’s arms
And this wide spectrum
of arcing electrons
firing in our celebral cells
keep our minds open
Because though we are
indeed quite different
this difference is the difference
that we differentiate for
to give each other’s self for.
and yet, she persists to say that
one of her fears is that
one of these days
we will run short on ingredients
maybe one,
maybe two,
or maybe all
but I assure her,
that even if we stop building
in this slim test beaker of ours
like all matter,
we will always keep moving
in these bonds that we have already
created together
Page 1 of 105
