Real Name: Name: Miguel
Age: 18
Hobbies: art, music, poetry, literature, photography, painting, sports, all sorts of artistic expression
Gender: Male
Biography: I was born. I am living. Soon I shall conquer the earth, and make all of you my scantily clad servants/dancers/play monkeys.
About Me: All heart. Ain't no such thing as 50%. All heart, all the time. Jack of all trades, master of a whole ****ing lot. I'm good at everything. Doncha wish you were more like me? Sexiest man in the whole ****ing world.
What I write mostly: Poetry and poetic prose. I used to RP and duel a lot, but I sort of grew out of it. I kinda miss it though. But I have always been more into poetry, since I have been writing since I was 6 or something.
Another Picasso
Another Picasso is sleeping,
with a painting left unfinished.
Resting his head, on pale green grass--
pale as the faces that stare in wonder--
his face is upturned to the sky.
Scattered as the stars,
his ideas are varied and strewn.
Yet, unlike the moon,
he's not a thief that only reflects without lament.
And in his eyes,
there is no such thing as clandestine light or color,
for he paints with the sky.
This Picasso is sleeping
with a dressed painting wrapped in his arms.
And frescoed on the walls of his mind,
helical veins wired to his heart.
Waves and waves of emotion,
bathing the brick wall,
weathering it apart.
He hopes for 'tabula rasa',
as he stares out from a window pane,
smeared with his tiny fingerprints.
It's raining outside,
and autumn is just beautiful.
Across the street,
in a window made from fine oak,
another pair of eyes treasure it's beauty;
for they both paint with hearts.
Another Picasso is sleeping,
with a painting left undone.
Her hair sailing, twilight curls under a shadow--
dark as the seas that swell with time--
her face frozen in still pictures.
And beneath the waves,
there is a sunken ship made from the finest oak.
Underneath the ship,
lies a grave,
undine, undying flowers climbing from it.
Locked in its depths is a secret so sublime,
that it's kept beneath the sea.
This Picasso is sleeping,
a painting flourished with passion.
And seamed on her heart,
seething pains of ghostly thorns.
But gradually these spines will rise roses.
Linger bitter memories,
and slowly pine for the sun.
She hopes for comfort,
as she stares out from a window pane,
smeared with her tiny fingerprints.
It's raining outside,
and autumn is just beautiful.
Across the street,
in a window made from fine oak,
another pair of eyes treasure it's beauty;
for they both paint with hearts.
These Picassos, dreaming,
living in a painting.
Their souls in twined,
a mix of sea and sky.
There is no horizon, nor transition,
only a warm sun framed between them.
Half, enticing in orange waters;
half, enticing in ivory heavens.
And a spell is cast.
They both sit behind a window pane and an oak frame,
20 lovely fingerprints smeared against the glass.
This is the only beautiful art,
for they paint with their hearts.
© Left Crimson
Juryrigged > Works > Bios > Left Crimson
