#bluecollarbrushworks

[bluecollarbrushworks]

But Why?

Her part is one of steely depths

A salty brine, below she rests

Promised refreshments sooth your tongue

A fun lie told since time begun

Kneel by her skirt of shell and clay

A hopeful sight, a masquerade

"One drink is all you need from me"

Sips for a soul, a primal need

Look past the glimmer of disguise

Be wary of a river's lies

Heed this script, avoid your doom

Or "But why" will be your last thought, through

[bluecollarbrushworks]

Life is basically just the sanding between coats:

You start off rough, full of splinters and factory marks. Maybe the substrate is a little warped or uneven. But someone - maybe you, maybe life - starts layering things on: experiences and expectations. Like the emotional primer of life.

The first coat goes down sloppy, too thick in spots, missed in others. It dries uneven. It always dries uneven. You didn't get the right paint or maybe you thinned it too much with chemicals.

But then comes the sanding.

Sanding smooths things out, but it also makes a mess. Dust everywhere. In your lungs, in your hair, in your coffee. But it's necessary. It’s how the finish gets better, and you find new techniques and strategies to make the work easier, faster, better.

You take a look at what you've got, feel the paint, realizing it's not what you wanted. You go back in, maybe embarrassed at the state of the first coat. You start sanding.

And just when it starts to look good? You do it again. Another coat. Another round of sanding. Repeat until you either achieve your perfection

Or give up and call it “rustic.”

In the end, nobody sees the sanding. They just admire the finish.

But...

You know.

You were there.

You breathed the dust.

You wore the mask.

You got up early

You stayed up late.

You made the commitment.

You fought the pain!

You earned it!

So yeah, life is a series of coats, each one hiding the refining and elbow grease what came before, with a whole lot of sanding in between. Frustrating, endless. Beautiful.

[bluecollarbrushworks]

I dont have good internet and it takes forever to load my older version of this poem and either link it here or just repost it. This is Porcelain People, something I've been working on for about a month. I feel okay about it. I want to end it differently, but I'll work on it more later. Instead of becoming part of the table, I want her to join it unwillingly, only to fall into the same depravity of those that surround get. Let me know what you think!

Porcelain People

Sculpted by man, a handmade handmaiden - the misguided misanthrope. Born to hunt dust, clean with water and soap. Laundry folded, bedsheets made - a home of misery, masked by hope.

Crafted from greed and guile, ceramic shined skin but an empty shoal. Picked from the tears of a child's soul. Haunted by the marvel of reality, the inward rip, a cosmic mole. Good born of evil - the paradox takes a toll.

Her masters masquerade naked of heart while sealed in furs and finery. Possessed by the poltergeist of grief and guilt. They strut around that cold castle they've paid to have built. Lords of excess, except excess of sanctuary, like hell was spilt.

She is not commended - she is commanded.

[Italisized] Condensation cascading down the outside of a stained glass - evaporation, their emancipation. She can't grasp them, but they feel her anticipation.

Toiling on the stove, making meaning of that meek moment. Committing to servitude in the vacuum of fulfillment. No tongue, no blood, no mind - and nobody minds - it's torment.

Produce exquisite delights, so scrumptious and rich. Scalloped saffron potatoes - aromas foreign and raw from the book of a lich. Potions of glacial heat, a binge fetish. She masters sense and layers sagas of adventure - a handcraft sandwich. Better the heat of the oven and stoves to the heat of the living.

Performing the waltz of commitment, she kites through the blades and hammers of demands and spites. It's a ballet that thwarts her human rights. The guests await - unknowing of their gluttonous fate.

Grace can be removed easier than it is gained. And there was one without, a man kept unnamed. Sight unkempt, soul poorly maintained. A declaration of war scribed on his teeth. He was a king, a lord, named God in that keep - His Majesty Insane.

He bestowed his whip to the whimsical, wrote law of controversy, and was highly cynical. Dawning feathered robes of rare avian, he suffocates lush gardens. Choking those havens, no air to save them.

But porcelain doesn't breathe.

He tries to break her too.

Breaking only their bond, the choking snakes - sharp pings of pressure, perfectly pivotal. One must have knowledge of words, a breath, a symbol of syllable. They laugh as she cracks, hysterical. Visions of fission, fissures form with the frequency of fear found fictional.

Her body opened into fractured fractals. Lips of luck only crack a smile on her for a while. Contentment has never knocked, it's not just been a while. She speaks inwardly, gazing upon the path of her last thought, feeling vile.

Open mind spilling nothing, a soundless song of entropy.

Propped up and poised, heat of solder searing sheen without complaint. Repaired with poisoned primer and paint. A victim of villainous varnish, another redacted saint. Those flickers of curiosity, bound by corrupted restraint.

A fresh cavernous confine - a breath inhabits within her for the first time in a while. The spark of imagination catches that ceremonious wind. The two kiss with a sensation that hated and sinned. A suck, a rush, a supernova of power that blasts you back - pinned.

Picked up and sealed in concrete among the razor table of the elite. A new form to support those above to feast upon another's soul and meat.

[bluecollarbrushworks]

Liturgical Condemnation

Deceased by you, I cut right through,

A line of ghostly nuns.

They halt my way, and start to pray,

They hate us godless sons.

A chant begins, "punish his sins!"

I feel my psyche flutter.

With the words they wield, they will not yield,

I'll surely burn asunder.

Ill meet the end and then befriend

A devil's leering eyes.

With furrowed frow, black aura glow

Justice what's it denies.

He sits atop a throne of bone,

All carved with evil rites.

Amalgamations of hell creations

Scream in endless nights

[bluecollarbrushworks]

I know it's a generic poem, but I just wanted to write something. I feel too tired to draw and I try to practice some form of art daily. So, here's another short poem about my favorite little shit, Wheeler.

She drinks the water from a hose

Shakes her head as the water throws

Candid sprinting brings delight

A tug-of-war, a joyful bite

A tongue that finds a boogers treat

She'll lick your nose, a disgusting feat

Sleepy nights fight restless days

Snores at rest and barks in play

I hold so much love for this little one

The spice with sweet, like cinnamon.

[bluecollarbrushworks]

Here's a song I wrote, I'm looking for help with a melody. I'm just doing this for fun, so if you'd like to create some instrumentals I can sing over... and also the tune and cadence I should sing in... send it! 🤘

Human Billboard

I'm a human billboard - a walking epithet.

You'd think they'd pay me something, but I'm worth more deep in debt.

Paint your thoughts upon me and claim it's what I think.

News can't tell what's fact from fiction, it's all quite indistinct.

We're free to make our lives however we see fit.

Just as long as our thoughts line up with the social government.

Dwarfed by global powers held by men in suits.

Living lavish lives, the disparity's acute.

Claiming that they're one of us while their mansions are insured.

They sell us scripts and dyes so their plots will be assured.

Buy those creature comforts - but they just ain't worth a fuck.

Plastic rainbowed garbage products filling every truck.

They just want our money - our souls, and land, and death.

That price you paid for choice was your mind - at day and rest.

Post to all your socials for fame and engagement

A devils desperate display - digital disparagement

We're shamed for living wild, and making our own bed

Don't dare be self sufficient, corporations need us lead.

Replaced by propaganda - brought to you by Coke!

I barricade my humble home from the one's they're calling woke.

Run from We The People to escape inherent greed.

I prefer a life of rain and dirt and the freedom bought with seed.

[bluecollarbrushworks]

This is maybe the most visually powerful poem I've written so far, in my opinion. As always, I'm struggling with a title for it and suggestions are welcome! Feel free to correct mistakes and offer structural criticism. This took me a bout a week to write, and I think my language may be too basic. I need to consult the good ol' thesaurus.

Slice my eyes and put those chips through a stereoscopic viewer - you may then see my calloused skin.

Tan my skin for fancy leather - you may then experience what binds me together.

Crush my bones to dust your brain - you may then know why I keep no company.

Trade my brains for matted will - you may then be right to smother my ideals.

Burn my will with your sulphuric sorrows - you may then force my hand.

Tame my hands with whips of fear - you may then see my calluses grow

[bluecollarbrushworks]

Cursed by a woman's nurturing hand, I craft a fantasy of love. I nearly remember the feeling of her hand in mine as I lay alone, a false memory. We sang often and off key, an echo born in my mind. When July screams at over 100°, that warmth will still be stolen by my own reflection. My mirrors show the lines of pain and hate, and I stare longingly into them hoping her ghost will embrace me one more time. And, maybe, my reflection will smile back at me with her.