Inner Critic(n) a parasitic entity that feeds off of creative beings.

Piero Manzoni Artist's shit

What you know about it?

I’ve been trying to make an upgrade from a wanna-be poet/writer/artist-type chick to an individual that actually is successful in one of these mediums.   I would be able to do this if it wasn’t for this inner critic chick junking up my flow and throwing major shade by making comments like this:

“”Who do you think you are anyways, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, freaking John Keats?”

AND

“Seriously, my great-great-great-grandmother could’ve written better poetry than that and she was a slave (i.e. she couldn’t read or write due to her unfortunate circumstances).”

OR

“Girl you know you can’t draw worth a damn.”

AND

“Paint by number isn’t art.”

So you see what I have to put up with.

I’ve tried all the logical solutions to shut her up.  I’ve done the whole free writing, write-just-for- the-sake-of-writing for ten minutes and don’t worry about grammar or about punctuation or about making sense thing.  I ended up editing my results because they weren’t profound enough (ά la Jack Kerouac).  As for my art practices, I keep an art journal.  I rarely work in it for fear of messing up that expensive ass watercolor paper.  I mean really, how can I ever live up to my full potential if this chick is forever in my ear telling me I’m not good enough?  Oh and don’t get me started on referring to the internet for support.  I’ll get on the web and snoop around for inspiration from fellow artists/writers.  What usually happens is I’ll stumble across a blog or website of someone whose work I really dig.  After about five to ten minutes of enjoying the fruits of their labor, I’m reeling into a self-imposed pity party.  “Boo-hoo, I’ll never be as good as such and such.  Please pass me the lotion infused Kleenex,” I whine aloud to no one in particular.  Actually you know who is present and nodding, “I told you so.” I hate her.

Since none of the conventional methods of quieting my inner critic work, I have to take drastic measures.  I have to kill this bitch.  I invite you to murder yours as well.  We can all go down in history together as the coldest, baddest, inner critic murdering gangsters to ever do it.  Here’s the plan.  Pick up you pen, pencil, crayon, or use your fingers if you’re like me and cannot afford such fancy instruments and stab her ass.  Poke her, slash her, Lorena Bobbitt her, and get her out of your life.

*Trust me you’ll be a better artist for it.

Courtesy of madmikesamerica.com

Oh you just don’t know

*You may need your critic for revising, so you probably shouldn’t murder her.  Maybe you can just stuff her into a closet or something until you’re ready for her.

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The signifier failed to signify.

20 resting souls

In a world where:

“Things like this don’t happen,”

not here.

The words, the words

are better dead;

As they are inadequate,

for drying tears.

scribblings of a madman

written through pains of failure.  Committed.  It is a never-ending flow thoughts materialized into the unexpected.  It is rough, undiscovered, still in the beginning stages.  It is the result of never saying no.  It does not care who is watching as it gets undressed, it is not modest.  It is unfamiliar and it cannot be found in the retinas of any man’s eye.  It is sometimes unworthy, often times plain, dull, lack lustre, UGLY.  It is the wrong shade of lipstick on the right girl, it’s the hole in her stockings.  It is a mis-fit.  Archetype.  Unusual.  Rare and common.  Irritating and lovely.  It is paradoxical.  It knows no bounds it is free.  And it is not, I repeat it is not, A DAMN ROSE.

 

Feel free to continue with your definition of beauty below in the comment box.

This poem is in response to a picture prompt posted November 24th, 2012 via Twitter.

Elephant BeachRushing to corrode my memories

tried my damnest to run away

 

The moon works against me

waxing and waning at the membrane

 

The mothers return

release hard hopes of life

 

I’ve buried the remnants

in shallow graves spread-

Along the shore

HAIR COILS UP BUT IT DON’T SPRING BACK

LIKE A MATTRESS MADE LOVE ON

IT DON’T SPRING BACK

 

SKIN IS BLACK LIKE

FINGERS DRAPED ON THE BASE OF A LOVERS NECK

BLACK LIKE, DON’T GET LOST IN THIS NECK

OF THE WOODS

 

THIS MUST BE SPOKEN ALOUD

THE PAIN UNTANGLED

BECAUSE COMPLEXION IS HARD TO EXPLAIN

 

YOU CANT QUITE PICTURE THESE HIPS

ARE FULL LIKE POLITICIANS

ARE FULL OF SHIT

FULL LIKE HOOD BABIES

ARE FULL OF DREAMS

FULL LIKE DISPLACEMENT GENTRIFICATION

 

TO SWIM IN A POOL SO DEEP

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER YOU’LL NEVER REACH

IT’S FUCKED UP, SO GET UP. GET OUT

DON’T WANT YOU IN THE POOL ANYWAYS

YOU ARE FOREVER DISPLACED

 

THIS AIN’T ABOUT RACE

IF IT WAS WE’D NEVER

IN A GAME RIGGED

 

TOO MANY TIMES  BEEN MADE TO CHOOSE

EITHER TO LIVE UP

OR STOOP DOWN

RED SAID IT BEST-ON US PLYMOUTH ROCK LANDED

 

AND SO THIS NEEDED TO BE WRITTEN

THE STORY NEED NOT BE SCRIPTED

WE ARE BLACK

OUR HAIR COILS UP IT

DON’T SPRING BACK LIKE

THE MOVEMENT THAT WAS LOST
Via Google Image

Photo Credit: Flickr

Shed

Liquid petals captured

and discarded, yours are relinquished

Symbolized

How can one grow

If bound by the confines

of definition, I’d rather

Bleed

Photo courtesy of Sabina Panayotova via Flickr

Love making in negative spaces

Predilections licking surface wounds

Eyes fixed on ceiling store

Shopping its cracks for displaced pleasure

“you’re too deep, I can’t reach you”

The rapacious knocking ceases.

“I know”

And I wonder if you’ll cry for me

like you did all the Others

energy is released, reconfigured

tenure the red walls of this black baby doll

———————

too worn out to try

and cry so it just drips

heavenly intent amidst

a fiery background well

into the night

———————-

wail into the night

persist until something sticks

and something rips

oops! there goes

the newfound virginity

—————————

a single tear falls

and is held hostage

in the valley of Lip

I’m up thinking about you

being counted.

You’re awakened by the count,

counting

days and minutes

my back against the wall,

and I’m counting…

1) you’re here

2) so am I

3) we are agile thieves, stealing time.

What Was

lucid star in my sky

keeps me gone

illuminating what once was

——————————–

Iridescent, you get me high

I’m rolling

you up, breaking

you down

————

inhale you in my soul

exhale and nothing is sold

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