This post will be my first post on this site and I consider this one of my "Better" writes. I am just looking for opinions, constructive criticism and just honesty. Thank you for reading 
An image of self realization. As i look upon this painting on the wall, i see the truth and feel the violent fear of violation. This is me in painting form. This is me set it colour, never to move again as i am stuck in one position until burnt down.....
I will never feel anything other then the emotion i have within this art. I will never be aloud to shift my eyes and look else where again, nor will i have the functionality to inhale the needed oxygen- for i am not human. I am not man nor monster, god nor demon. I am....just a painting. I have now been processed into art for people to gaze at and see, fear and imagine what their brains allow them.
For i am stuck, betrayed and belittled if you will, I can not harm, i can. not. be. monstrous.
Until death do us part will i stay on the wall of a buyers house, then stuck in a dark basement collecting dust in the next. The dust will cover my inked eyes and i am therefore blind in darkness once where, for darkness is where i was born, raised and lived. I am home once more until light is forced upon me. This time things are different. This time the buyer owns no suit, he owns no mansion nor is he married to royalty. He is the cliche.
He looks at my undaunted eyes and i look directly back into his. He wonders what is that man thinking and I think the same.
As i sit still, in this forsaken dark green chair, arms on either arm rest and head tilted down, I understand that this man is a living portrait of me. But how can this be for I am statue. I am structure. Engineered and created not to move, painted and brushed into place....but yet i am, in real life being replicated as a living breathing, movable creature. A person, set free over the world to rayne my fury.
But yet, as i sit, portrait in this chair. In one hand i hold whisky in a glass and A half smoked cigarette in the other - We see each other. He the cliche man, sitting alone in his black chair, arms rested on either side, whisky in one hand, cigarette in the other. And I, the lonely painted man also doing the same action.
Is when the world rotates, Is when I, the silent and he the living silent connect....
Who made this portrait and how did they replicate me, for I am no painting, I am alive.
I breathe, I shift my body and my eyes. I am not, I will not be let myself be put into a place of the non movable, but here i sit. There i stare and will forever. How does a painting give me so much resemblance of myself. Who is behind this madness?
As i sit..portrait. In my, chair. Smoking my cigarette and drinking my whisky it occurs to me.
We are one in the same and the same as each other, Painting or not, emotional or empty.
We are one.
An image of self realization. As i look upon this painting on the wall, i see the truth and feel the violent fear of violation. This is me in painting form. This is me set it colour, never to move again as i am stuck in one position until burnt down.....
I will never feel anything other then the emotion i have within this art. I will never be aloud to shift my eyes and look else where again, nor will i have the functionality to inhale the needed oxygen- for i am not human. I am not man nor monster, god nor demon. I am....just a painting. I have now been processed into art for people to gaze at and see, fear and imagine what their brains allow them.
For i am stuck, betrayed and belittled if you will, I can not harm, i can. not. be. monstrous.
Until death do us part will i stay on the wall of a buyers house, then stuck in a dark basement collecting dust in the next. The dust will cover my inked eyes and i am therefore blind in darkness once where, for darkness is where i was born, raised and lived. I am home once more until light is forced upon me. This time things are different. This time the buyer owns no suit, he owns no mansion nor is he married to royalty. He is the cliche.
He looks at my undaunted eyes and i look directly back into his. He wonders what is that man thinking and I think the same.
As i sit still, in this forsaken dark green chair, arms on either arm rest and head tilted down, I understand that this man is a living portrait of me. But how can this be for I am statue. I am structure. Engineered and created not to move, painted and brushed into place....but yet i am, in real life being replicated as a living breathing, movable creature. A person, set free over the world to rayne my fury.
But yet, as i sit, portrait in this chair. In one hand i hold whisky in a glass and A half smoked cigarette in the other - We see each other. He the cliche man, sitting alone in his black chair, arms rested on either side, whisky in one hand, cigarette in the other. And I, the lonely painted man also doing the same action.
Is when the world rotates, Is when I, the silent and he the living silent connect....
Who made this portrait and how did they replicate me, for I am no painting, I am alive.
I breathe, I shift my body and my eyes. I am not, I will not be let myself be put into a place of the non movable, but here i sit. There i stare and will forever. How does a painting give me so much resemblance of myself. Who is behind this madness?
As i sit..portrait. In my, chair. Smoking my cigarette and drinking my whisky it occurs to me.
We are one in the same and the same as each other, Painting or not, emotional or empty.
We are one.
