Art school is the epitome of constitutional brain washing through systematic conditioning through school at an early age. telling humans from an early age there is a right or wrong way to do anything. Art school teaches techniques for a certain look, but confuses kids into believing this is drawing rather than reminding this is only a guideline to what has successfully worked before by societies visual standards throughought history; however, this is not a template. Drawing is an expression -  no expression is wrong – and interpretation of it is not wrong either. If we listen to music on headphones, and use the pencil as a medium to give visuals of what goes on inside of our heads through our five senses in reaction to the music, who is to say what I am feeling is wrong or unfelt? Because my expression does not come in strokes depicted by a teacher, but by my unconscious reaction of what the music manipulates – is there really a wrong way to draw it, when my feeling is mine; an objective feeling? School teaches techniques, not expression. Expression is not wrong, unless it is not authentic, and consciously trying to depict what one believes another is feeling – then yes, it may be wrong, because noone in the world may actually feel that through your assumptions. But if you draw what you feel, what you see, what you hear – no matter what preconceived notion of what you believe looks good or bad through unconscious conditioning – it is not wrong, because one person in the world felt this.

the lyrics coming from the radio don’t match your lips

the melody doesn’t match your tear

no napkins can whipe the fear

your hairs shorter than the day

we had the conversation where we promised wed never be here

that wed never use a car for nothing more than skipping those long winter walks

but gas isnt cheap, and so isnt the price for cheating

ill give you a truth, for a tear

ill trade you what happened, for what will

somone open a windw

its harder to see tears in the rain

someone open a window

out there there is a lot less pain

someone open a window

so we can save ourselves from the shame

the addie mixed with the vodka; and apparently I am in-and-out of consciousness; as apparently I have no memory of what causes my heel to unforgivenly bleed and my right hand to ache, while I sit on my kitchen table writing this letter, over a smoking ashtray.

The neighbors complain about the loud fights in my place – I am alone. I surely like to remmember if someone were there with me; even a fight to quench this dessert of lonliness ive drowned myself within. Do I have a secret life, where I engage in verbal quarrels amongst the silence within myself?

 I beg, to myself, that someone were there with me – even a fight to explain the trajectory of these events, which cause me to write this letter to whomever will read. I don’t want help; I need a friend.

I see it however, this latest accusation of noise – may be an anslaught of multiple personality disorder - having it out, over my new found emptiness from love.

Now, if I could only come up with a lovable personality, someone could enjoy.

momma tell me whats going on?

love enwrapped in lies, but you still act so strong

walls bathed in blood lost babys in the tub

whos to say whos right when youve stayed for so long

and yet it kills me to say your wrong

when you think your doing right  staying here confined for another childs life

but whips to the back, and a future made of trash, wont bring you to the past that once made you laugh.

i see your crown torn in half

while i crawl i bleed from scattered shattered glass.

and i cry by the king whos done you wrong

using old lyrics to write new songs

but damn mom you aint gotta do it

let me lose it, let me abuse it, feel the pain

give me your tears and ill hold them in vain

i accept someone who came after me, redefined your interpretation of “perfection”