PoArt:The Art That Speaks Statements

I. A word or two from the edge.

I am the play of feelings. Emotional exasperations painting windows on paper. From the deepest blues that a pupil can store to tomes of tasseled good-byes, my thought leaves. My body merges to emerge in a room full of feelings. I am a crying tear, awaiting. Release this fluidity inside of bones. Make me the moment. Forget about the raucous for I am to be seen in the bleeding pines of our heartbeat. The forest of combined experience, secular in its sections of sorrow, silky in its thread of time. Here we capture a burning glow of each other. Here we are unrevised revisions playing tag with subconscious memories to hide and seek what we understand in the genius of our individuality. Can you hear me? Can poart speak its verbiage, its velocity, its dimensional creativities? Are we but the power plot in our recesses of thought? I need to know the angles of perplexities to straighten a path to hidden stars of imagination. Plow the fields of our age. Sprout the buds of undying youth. Take the chance in the streams of romance that tickle the realities. Poart is. Poart seeks peace after plowing the battlefields of a day or entering the zoo of emotions or rotating the solstice of generations. Come quietly. Within the solitude of each of us are screams seeking to be released in that moment of inspiration. I am alive to. Hear my colors. Touch the bleeding. Can I give more? Can there be less than the revelations of human expression? Poart is here to stay!

II. The grip of understanding.

Talk to me, moody feelings of the past. Picturesque dialogues strewn upon moons waxing and waning with the ever changing blossoms. I need a heartbeat within you and me: a tempo or rhythm magically marinated to take the leap of understanding and affix eye contact. I know but I can barely say, just pray as if somewhere in the lonely clouds we sense our spring wanting summers to begin. Hope takes its own rope and lifts spirits into visionary comfort. We will be understood. Our last ember is but a spark upon fertile beginnings blooming with color. An energy purges itself of the melancholy. I am here, a new beginning. Do not leave gentle ring of fate set upon barren pasts filling with fertility. Jungles of possibility need to tie hands together and work in unison. Match footsteps and renew our caring souls. Hello, the faces talk.

I want to know you. Forget about the rest, the resilience that wants to remember another and place unsociability with a certain untenable teaching. I need. Watch the birds fly so effortless and count the feathers of understanding. Like a child's playing developed in an unrestrained fashion, running, jumping and never forgetting the breath. Tireless, the seconds melt into hours and strike high noon in a zenith laughter. I never want to let the feather down. Wind wash away the past moment. Forgetfulness is an ageless eternity of prosperity. For do we need to remember the blood filled poison of battling hearts caught on bitter revenge? An innocence in the bliss of a focused paradise reflects the Eden's within all hopes. Brothers and sisters without banishment have blood that's never broken. All is as all is for one. Vendettas of daily life forsake all vexation. Feeble fairytails are relived in real fashions. I am not alone in the lunge, in the comfort of togetherness. No never alone in the touch of a lost friend, in a found stranger. Never alone.