July

“The summer looks out
from her brazen tower,
Through the flashing bars
of July.”

 

I am forced to focus an eye on pain. A world we call home in turmoil and i, lowercase, sitting in my bed waiting to simply stop thinking… I see so called protectors becoming oppressors. A breathing being can say to another your life air is not as good as mine and therefore hate has slipped on a garment of acceptance. Protruding from that elegant soft smock, he wears proudly the mask behind which no one thinks to look. Confusion strikes the heart to fear, and yet all i understand is this; the antonym to fear is audacity, and that is to take action shamelessly.

let's  look  back  at  love.

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July = Relationship
(as in love/hate)

Summer suffer
heat the rain
The trick of freedom
that brings pain

In July, the wind still whispers
Secrets keeping, hidden, shivers

laced up love
on every ray
warmed by yellow
golden bay

A sea of white, green, and heat
miserable, happiness scorching our feet.


Queen Anne’s lace is growing on the edge of the woods. The sun warms the earth before I step outside. Eyes blink slowly open to that shining planet sending wisps through my window. I’ve never been fond of summer but despite the heat I have come to appreciate it, especially in the morning. Trust me, I have never  been a morning person. And yet sometimes, more often then not these days, I wake up and I see the light though my white window and I’m okay. I’m okay.
Heat is white. hot. Not red. We see fire as heat but fire is death and life. Heat, summer heat, is white, light filled warmth. It warms our skin and scorches our earth. You can’t see it but you can feel it. mmmmmmagnified by reflections and things black. All we can do is feel it. Be undone by it. I’d rather not.

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Still stuck on watercolor women. I don’t mind though, I think I’ve found a good thing. I’m ugly stubborn but I also have a short-ish attention span. The combination of those two things makes me surprised and not surprised at all that I’m sticking with this.

But I paint my emotion in these women, my feelings in their eyes. What’s shown is not what’s given, our brief and total demise.

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Solace

When all I desired
was promised
to me.

And all have conspired
to keep it
from reach.

There is safety in numbness–
there is solace
in sleep

– Lang Leav

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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