Art is to man,

As the paintbrush is to the painter.

Some will claim

That art is beauty.

That art must represent the good,

The laughter, the soft repose.

But art is naught but

The melded shadows of the maker, 

The sculptor, the writer. 

Art is a creation

Known only to the creator

In the deep recesses of his being.

There lies true beauty,

In the unknown places of thought

And art is the bridge

From the flighty dream to the tangible.

Is it not acceptable for art

To be more than beauty?

A multifaceted pièce de résistance.

One of agony

And breathless terror

And hopeless, aching romance.

Art is the visceral, remarkable work of us.

Art is humanity.

And humanity is one writhing,

naked body of art. 

Sometimes he goes to his car to run errands - when the bus route won't take him far enough. 

Sometimes he goes to his car to fetch a forgotten item, one of many taking occupancy in his littered backseat.

Sometimes he goes to his car just to think.

Sometimes he goes to his car to scream. 

Right now I can see him as I open the front door of the flat; his hands are flying and his mouth is gaping wide and agonised and --

"Hey, hey."

I walk over to where the car is parked on the curb and press my palms against the glass. 

I can feel his screams.

"Hey, listen to me."

He slams his fists into the steering wheel, over and over and over and over.

"Listen."

There's no way he can hear me over the muffled din inside the vehicle - raising my voice will make him panic more, so I wait until he pauses to gasp for breath and press his forehead against the door. 

His face is twisted in pain. 

I can see the tears dripping from the bridge of his nose.

"Listen to me, listen. Unlock the door."

He doesn't look up, but he shakes his head minutely and clasps his hands over his ears. 

"I'm right here."

Only a glass window separates my palm from the rest of him.

Then a low sob in his throat evolves into a horrible screech.

"Oh God! Kill me! Please kill me!"

"I'm not going to leave you."

He twists his fingers in his hair and pulls savagely.

He's hyperventilating.

The sound is stifled by the vehicle, but I hear every word.

"I want to die!"

"I know. I know."

When he finally unlocks the door, several minutes later, after he remembers how to breathe, he's too exhausted to do anything more than stare at the windshield. So I gently push him across the seat and take the driver's place and shut the door again.

He leans against me, silent. Spent.

I gently rub his temples - he likely has a headache by now - and turn on the cassette player.

Safe.

Prose: |prōz| (n) 

"Direct; without metrical structure."

There is beauty in nothing

in formless words like this

why structure

why rhythm

our hearts all beat differently

our minds are beset with different stones

my coal is your opal

and my emerald is your river pebble

I will change my prose to satisfy no one

but myself

Don't you know

I have it planned already

I will stare at the cold blue mountains

As I lift that wine bottle to my lips

And beg the life to leave them 

Just as cold and blue as the cordillera

Don't you know

I could only die in your arms tonight

And even if its the small things I have now

I'll cling to them like a stubborn sapling

Don't you know

The best dream I ever had

Was five bullets to the head

And a calm, quiet darkness

An overwhelming peace that took me up

and stilled my lungs.

Quiet.

quiet.

I am an icepack for a bruised lip

I am solitude

Comfort

When your friends strip you down

And leave you naked and cold

I'm the only one left

Because I was the only one who was ever there

But you don't see me

Unless its through your black eye

Because the moment

Your abusers take you back up in their wretched arms

You forget every wrong

And you leave me here

In my first aide kit until you get smashed to pieces again.

Loyalty is a double-edged sword

I'll never stop loving you

Even if you're conditional, and unkind, and sick.

Enjoy my perks while they last

Because while you suck the life from my lungs

The marrow out of my bones

You're too blind to see

Your security blanket is

ripping at the seams.

Other tears would tell me they were worth more than my piteous troubles.

My tears remind me that they are a part of the human condition.

"Don't damp me out in a tissue, hold me in your hands."

"Don't wipe me off your face, let me stay."

"I am not your shame. I am your humanity."

Where is the wrong in nudity

if it represents the beauty

and purity

of Man before The Fall?

The glory of God's Creation

untainted by the lusts

of humanity?

Where is the wrong in baring

ourselves before the Heavens

in the same cloth

God wove for our birth?

Standing alone – the inmost

intimacy of our beings?