A Good Artist Doesn’t Have Ears, Only Eyes And A Throat To Speak
I’m sorry — you thought my art was about you?
I’m sorry — you thought my art was about you?
Oh wild eyes, oh wide heart.
I can’t imagine waking up with so much pain
that it drives me to think of leaving.
Seize me strongly and sweetly — without leaving space for uncertainty or doubt.
Have a fucking opinion, and yell it from the rooftops.
Why do we do this to ourselves? It’s like we are in a love story with rejection.
Surfers have a world — an earth, a doorway that isn’t understood unless you’ve been here.
I need you to need yourself so deeply and so badly that you abandon the needs of the world today.
It’s paradise except for those women who are too afraid
to hold the men accountable
because this isn’t the USA
and the cops will ask you
what were you wearing?
You are living in a world that does not contain the flesh of me, the heart of me.