artists words

Life Of An Artist

“Life Of An Artist”

She sits in her lonely home
With a pen or brush in either hand
I ask her not to feel alone
She wants to make people understand
On a quiet night with a breeze
She pours her heart onto a canvas
Already she has drawn the trees
A feeling so happy and anxious
She wants to show her work
To as many eyes that can see
She ponders aloud and smirks
She wants to be somebody
Its hard to pay her bills
But to her that doesn’t matter
She does her art for thrills
As the paint spills and splatters
She’s starving for attention
Trying whatever it takes
Determined to reach perfection
Sweating details that she makes
Her palette is colored bright
Her pen is full of ink
Red, blue, green, and white
Her mind is clear to think
She’s craving much grace
High accolades from a crowd
As she continues to trace
If they could only see her now
Living out dreams on a sheet
Or fantasizing in a pad
She forgets her terrible week
Or the things that make her mad
Most people don’t comprehend
Why she’s alone in her room
As the colors start to blend
She smiles because soon
She will have finished her ensemble
Accomplished and so smart
In her brilliant mind resembles
A dazzling work of art
In her own little niche
She slaves away on a desk
In which is so enriched
With tools such a mess
But she is so ambitious
Instilling ideas to the willing
Whether real or fictitious  
Her ink continuous spilling
And as this talent grows
And improves much everyday
Maybe then who knows
“I am somebody” she will say

the sink overflowed with the way i felt about you, stain it all crimson
we used to drink miller lite together in the same bathtub i’m sitting alone in

i could tear these walls apart and you would never notice now



(is that a question? ye, submissions.)
My dear friend(o), so-called “George”, your art inspires me so much, your determination, perseverance and kindness are indescribable, and looking at your pallets requests I decided to try to do something again… (also my pencils just begged me to try) It came out messy (it is p. small) but I wanted to share. THIS HAVE BEEN BROUGHT TO LIFE JUST BECAUSE OF YOU!!! You are the best, at something you are and it is true)) For me you are the best to lighten up every good piece of ANY drawing. I love seeing your ‘thank you’ posts because they are so adorable they make me smile every time I see them, and your blog JUST MADE OF THEM and other cheerful posts so your blog makes me happy)) THANK YOU VERY MUCH AND HUG YOU AND HAVE SOME COOKIES FOR ME!!

George: First and foremost, this is AMAZING!! I really love the look of drawings like this, and you did the color in such a nice, solid way!!! I love how vibrant the red is against this shade of blue… this is really nice!!!

And… oh my goodness, wowie, so many kind words all at once!! I hardly know how to respond to this much kindness!!!! I’m so glad that you like my work and even my silly little response posts, enough to be INSPIRED by me. I look up to YOUR artistic talent for many reasons, and to hear this from you is just…well, it’s an amazing feeling. And just… hearing that my ridiculous blog makes you happy is I think the best part of all, because I always, ALWAYS want to be able to make people happy. If I do that just by making silly art pretty much daily, then…. I’m doing something right in my life for once.

Thank you so much for dropping by to give me this pile of kindness!! This made me very happy to read.💦

He knew I’d chase him no matter the corner he ended up drowning in. He knew I’d change his Levi jeans no matter the amount of times he drank until he pissed his self. He also knew no matter what or how many bodies he had piled high that I would dig the grave. He knew when his legs stopped working & his hair grew gray I’d sale the dope. He knew I wouldn’t let him take a sentence or a day in Jail. He just knew I’d take the fall. It was either COMPLETELY blind love or none at all.

Just a crazy man’s daughter.


I’m not the best but I’ll tell you how I’m better than the rest.
Five foot one but say it with your chest.
Buck o’ five, could you say it with your breast? Oh, I’m sorry, did I say breast?

“They only pick on you because they like you.”
Let me give credit where credit is due.
To that jackass and the other few. Five foot one but on I grew.

“Sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you.”
Don’t worry, sit still dear, wait in queue. If the scar tissue wasn’t evidence enough, those years were more than rough.
I was equipped with the ability to over love to compensate for a lack of self-love.
I gave them the excuses they needed, wise words I never heeded.
Now experience runs fruitful, it makes me all the more truthful.
Two guarantees of those surrounding me.
Everybody lies, everybody dies.
Often times it’s hard to decide, which version you wish they would rather reside.
Now an honesty that leaves no room for doubt.
From the rooftop I’d yell, “How do you like me now,” I’d shout. Why do those people still sway the way I think, I feel.
But they gave me perspective so surreal.
So, now outside in, I’ve had the time to heal.
It gives me what they don’t have, I can choose who’s unapologetically real.


Things artists shouldn’t have to go through …

Okay the commission took me about a day to do, it was a quick one. 

But as soon as I get on the computer to post… this? 

Let me explain something about professionals, in art or any other field, once a commission is asked and something is establish by both people you cant just make changes…. it takes time to do what has been done so far, and artists we aren’t puppets or tools to be changing things around all the time. 

What bothered me the most is that the changes were a bit dramatic from was originally stated, I know it sounds crazy but when most of the work is done by hand, either you stat over or erase most of the work. 

Here’s a word of advise for buyers…… before you pay… before you say what you want, please be sure of what you want, don’t be so indecisive… because its not just about money its about the other persons time,

Later no body is happy, one the client for getting what they originally and with lots of detail already asked for, and two the artist who either starts over or just has to deal with an unhappy customer…

Know what you want before you ask for it, 

as for artists, we don’t have to be ripped off or hated for a client who isn't sure what they want to begin with…. 

anyhow that’s it. 

I’m a bit upset, But I’m sure the client is more (they didn’t know what they really wanted at first) and got stuck with what originally they asked for, and it was a 60 dollars spend of their money. 


I’m a fan of dark music

Of slamming guitar chords

And heartbroken lyrics

I’m a fan of soul pouring

And lonely voices croaking

Of music that’s been bruised

Until its black and blue

Because it makes me feel less alone

-bruised music ǁ(M. Komar)ǁ via strawberries-and-gasoline

I see you / standing on the fringe of your desk / oil painting of your mother’s portrait on old canvas / scattered pencil sketches of stranger’s faces / spilled enamel slowly drying on fabric / beneath stacked chairs sits a wooden sculpture of / a bald dwarf wearing its brown skin / hugging its knees to its chest as if forever waiting / for warm summers to fall from your roof / but it’s always raining acrylic paint on your head / dripping all over your arched back / on your rough paper hands / your fingers soaked in dense pastel // at night your cigarette burns watercolor smoke / you don’t suffocate / you only breathe in the poison / I wonder how long can you live with lungs leaking out of your body / and perhaps you ask yourself / how much you are worth / how many times you were the unseen spectrum / but I see you / and the bright colors of your restless shadows //  

                                                  — To the artists, and to my uncle (Valerie T.)

A Girl Named ‘Hope’

“Speak it into existence,” she said.
But it’s as if they’ve left me on read.
Try to silence my thoughts, go ahead.
But to my art I’m married, I’ve wed.
For that cliff my legs drape over, I’ve bled.
For those words, those tears, I’ve shed.
I had a need, a want, a desire but instead.
From what I love, I fled.
“Speak it into existence,” she said.
Hope is what I feel when I don’t feel dead.
For I need, I want, I desire today instead.
For family, for love, for art today instead.
Three reasons I live the life I’ve led.


Finsbury Park.
All is still in the station,
The pavements are splintered with dark.

Saturday morning, January,
The hustle begins to emerge.
Everyone should be cosy and tucked up in bed,
but this is London,
Please don’t be so absurd.

Blankets, loose change aren’t enough,
Pale mist coats the din,
They’re to be ignored,
We all live in sin.

Creaking metal fences,
Toasters at the ready.
Bread sliced, butter softened,
Punters come aplenty.

Caffeine induced nausea,
Headache ready to boot,
Wooden floors scolded and bruised,
My life’s work, all but moot.

It’s time to leave now
for Canonbury Overground.
Walking down Green Lanes,
I wish not to hear another sound.