Art as a person

Hey
My name is art
Or that is what they call me
Most of them
Some people call me other things,
until later in life,
then they figured that art is the name they should give me.
I’m portraying these words of myself so that you can know me a little bit more.
You’ve probably met me, many times. Sometimes in school,
and other times in private. Love
I have always been glad to meet you,
and so have you.
Our meeting is always very personal,
and it seems like it used to trigger your personal desires and thoughts, until next time we meet, and then they have usually changed. But sometimes they are the same. And that’s when you really appreciate me.
I can never be put in a box, although people try hard. Usually people have an experience of me, and feeling scared they can loose it, they put me in a box or try to trap me inside of the object they met me through. By the time they have done that I’m already long gone, but most people actually don’t take notice. I awake their desires but since they mistake me for their desires, the overwhelming desires take the place of me, and I get reduced to objects people discuss over, buy and sell, or in long nights trying to re-create me with their bare hands. I am sad about all these things. Because they make me seem far away. Or that control is the way to contain me, not knowing I will not leave them. Ever. Well, hopefully it will teach them who I am. That I am not constrained to the objects people have met me through, but rather I am the one that gives these objects their value, as a view gives value to a window. Without the view, the window would have no value. People call the window art when they forget who I am, when it is the view they saw through the window that truly is art.
I seem to come when people stand in appreciation and awe. And usually the more abstract the object the more I seem to come, only because it gives them an opportunity to sink deeper into their ability of seeing through a window. I appreciate that, when people use the ability I’ve given to see me, seeing beyond what is seen. The truth is, I am always here, in all that is seen, heard and felt. I am the beyond. And the experience of that meeting, is what people often call art. Because I give beauty to all that is appriciated. You might not like this text, because it may seem simple, dumb, or not correct. This might be because I don’t fit the box of what you think about art or some other reason. Well, to be honest, even the writer doubts me in this text, missing me, because he does not appriciate the writing through his hand, well let me tell you, he know he is wrong, for he experiences me nudging on his heart saying “hey appreciate me in this text and see it is starting to become beautiful!”
That’s why you never can create art. I create you, and you meet art, when you appriciate you.
Well you might think that you don’t like this defintion, because it’s not a full definition. No, it’s not a definition, it’s an invitation, to me, and you, and the dance that is the essence of art. That’s why these words will leave you with that definition, so that we can meet again. Beginning with these words

I am the one that lifts you up when you are low
I am the one that holds you close in the winter and the snow
When it is cold in this life
Warmth I give, with my breath to things, even poems like this
Is it pretty, is it perfect?
If it was I could not be seen
When I turn you inside out, through the well written and the cheesy
Only then, can we meet in fine dining and the greesy
You will see how relaxation breaks through the glass of all your wants
when you accept the elegance of mcdonalds together with a jazz restaurant
Only then, in the middle of the night
You and me, in the silence of the moonlight
Have we found the place we can be
Me and you, naked and free
Effortless creativity,
love
passion
Our true intimacy

Everything is art,
when you know me.
For you will appreciate,
not only the show,
but the mustard
as the greese
but also as the smallest of seeds.

A lullaby cry

build create build the pyramide
and always knowing too late
the de-construction becoming worse everytime
realising
a home of stone or wood will never be my rhyme
It keeps me in the air, so to say
no time to breathe or anywhere
to rest my foot










you say
I was meant to fly






but oh my











All I look for is a place to land and make my nest,
writing your name on the front door so I can escape the pest.
No this can’t be
Give me courage so I can see
Where my true home of “I cannot flee”
finally sets me free


no direction no map
no voice but others
No death but my own (wrong)
All hope gone
Yet reality has never been stronger
I grow up old
Yet maturing takes longer
Words, voices, rhymes, where does it all go
When is it all going to fit together into the perfect whole
No I know
where to see,
yet the comfort of words holds me so
that it’s hard to leave the blanket, where I don’t know what comes to show
Still there is the voice calling me
Not with words and not with rhymes
It’s calling me out of all this crime
Into the perfect one to see
Which no one see
Secret room
Like the womb

Now I hear the cry
Of a bye and a lullaby

Fuck you

Please godly man or woman, do not be intimidated away from this post seeing the title or concerning the thoughts you now might have about the writer. He or she is also a godly man or woman. Lets not let this word divide us anymore. Let it not make more destruction than it already have done to us men and women, street walls, buildings and subways. See, I want to talk to you. But how can I, when I cannot use all my words? How can I portray my message of peace through words, when there is words not held at peace?

If you had gold covered in a dirty sheet on your trip from Mexico to America, would you throw away the sheet on the way because it was dirty? Would not the sheet be as valuable as the gold during your trip? Would you not even be thankful for it, had it not been for the sheet, and the dirt on it, thieves might have come and seen,

and steel?

You see, on this journey towards peace, if you throw away any dirty sheet, you might risk throwing away a dirty posession.

Woops, I meant to write a valuable possession.

I have a habit of mixing them up at times.

So you, man or woman. Learning from this man or womans mistake,

maybe hold on before you look away, or judge it as “this cannot possibly be worth anything, specially considering its dirt”.

Train your eye, so that you who kept on reading, might learn from your curiosity this time. Treasures of words of peace might be hidden with the dirtiest words of division.

Now go, and forgive your enemy. He or she has given you a treasure. You might just have missed it.

all men and women,

Peace be with you

No more dark corners

why do I resist?
you are turning me to every side
letting me see every corner
or so I am describing it
but when I believe my description is not true

I feel I am resisting

and why do I resist?
it has to happen
but I resist on every side
resisting at every corner
how many corners left
how many sides?
the fact I am asking the question
proves I’m not alive
for when I’ve seen them all
been turned to every side
seen every corner
I would not ask how many more
I would not be writing any lore
I would not be anymore
for I would see

no sides

no corners

but
infinite

love

and how can I possibly resist it?

Curtain


The most beautiful things are never written about. Their too busy being admired


The most interesting things are never spoken about, they are too busy being enjoyed


The truest things in life, are not made of words. They are too busy being.



Oh words why do you speak so poorly about yourself?
Are you not admired, listened to and enjoyed?
Yes I am, but that is the problem. They never want to see what lies behind me



If they did, they would know and enjoy something that would not just perish like me, a cloud passing by,
but they would know what it’s like to fly,

in an eternal sky


If a journalist would learn how to fly in this sky,
his article would never have been written,
but be covered in blue

If a paparazzi would learn how to fly in this sky,
he would never get his picture,
but the celebrity would join him for a barbeque

I am like a curtain
Every word I say is a curtain
Let the curtain pass by like a cloud,

and feel the fresh air in your lungs


where every man is a pilot

and pilots are dreamers



*



Did understanding fail?

Let it happen


it’s a part of the first breath behind the curtain.