I’m sure, once a cloud drifted through asleep on drafts of dreams, warmed by dangerous desert lands where the hungry ground eats clouds for life. But in that brief cool morning, when sun was kind and vicious lands asleep, the fog turned golden, alive in delight that the warm dream could come true.
Tag: art
Black Bench
I remember you most on a black bench, fingers on the keys, trying to play as passionately as you wanted to be, as you were, for you held your wild heart uncertainly. You knew not how to hold it properly. But all I could hear was you banging too hard on the keys. Trying to … Continue reading Black Bench
Dry
It's dry and gray outside. I'm dreaming of naps and Monsters, despite knowing the chemicals will induce unrest. There's bumps minute in pain, but satisfying in their defeat covering my forehead with puss. Blink up, dry eyes, to rain? Not yet. Skies here love to tease too much of moisture. Deserts don't do me well. … Continue reading Dry
My Love
Each shrine of my art is dedicated to the muse which is you. And each rung of my dreams spools and hinges on your existence. I only started to breathe real air when you stood still to breathe next to me-- perhaps the first to just stand there doing nothing, saying nothing, but just there … Continue reading My Love
He Has an Artist’s Mind
He was born with the mind of an artist, but, through some trick of fate, was given no means to express it. Some would say along with a small shameful part of my mind, that he is like a child, playing pretend in a world long since gone and dead, and therefore, no use for … Continue reading He Has an Artist’s Mind
When You’re Ashamed to be a Writer (or any other kind of artist)
We all reach this point, I believe. No matter what point in your life you are, there's a sort of private, pathetic shame to being an artist. We don't invent the next medical miracle. We don't easily provide a huge house and car for our family, most of the time. And, most of us, rarely … Continue reading When You’re Ashamed to be a Writer (or any other kind of artist)
When Did I Stop Believing?
When did I stop believing in myself? Was it when I turned my head away-- it seems for just a moment-- from my main work, the little one who bears my eyes, to write? Was it when I looked away from the page and realized I'm not that far from where I started? Was it … Continue reading When Did I Stop Believing?
Author T.S. Lowe 