"They're just feelings. And no one cares about your feelings..."
Troy sucked down another hot and dry swig of his shaggy cigarette, which he rolled himself like he always does. I gazed out the window as midday Concord was pulled into a long stretching blur. "Damn. He's right." I thought. "No one cares about how you feel about anything. No one gives a damn unless it relates or has something to do with them." Troy turned down Claycord Ave. We were getting close to Clints house. I stayed silent for a while, thinking about all my feelings. Thinking about all the things I was afraid to share, all the opinions I kept bottled up, all the people who didn't care, including myself. It was like learning a new word. Or, seeing the World a bit more clearly. We sped by a goofy looking handmade mailbox resting on a long wooden beam. We were close, but I stayed silent the rest of the drive.

The creeping danger of all things
Eager and foamy with red lips
Congregating between the auburn brows
Meticulously sketched up on my forehead

Closer to me seems the crumbling cliff
Sending it's stones heavily into the drink
I become uncertain of a sure thing
That today, old gravity will surely fail me.

My wings are clipped, my beak is broken
These vicious talons are all I have left.
I am an eager lizard kicking at the gravel
My clumsy scales quiver at the Sun

Shame becomes a ill companion
Coughing and beckoning to be groomed
Flipping through dusty crackling pages
In a memory book called Regret

One day I may savagely rule this world
But today, I am afraid.

Do I show up everyday
Knocking at your door?
Are you always waiting
with open arms?
I do let myself fall into
the mystery of you,
only sometimes like
when I was a child.
I'm older now,
a little more grey
and my heart has learned a thing or two.
Those lessons of the heart,
which are sometimes so swift
yet often so lengthly strung
from romance to romance
are but independent threads
wrapping and weaving the soul.
This blanket of life, this veil, this
pillow
starts only from a thread
whom needs steady hands to help guide.
And they show up everyday
knocking at my door.
Am I always waiting with open arms?

Burne Hogarth

One of my favorite artist
My Mother bought me his book Dynamic Anatomy when I was young
It introduced to me the human form in powerful, vidid, and wild detail
The men with massive arms, wide chests, and rigid legs.
The women, so soft and elegant, yet bad-ass and intimidating
All nude and free as the body ought to be
I have since purchased several other of Burnes publications
and plan on studying his ideas and techniques in depth
. Thanks B.