This Art Poem by Drey Hommies

It paints us. This art.
We are the artists. We are the art.

We are the pencil. We are the ink.
Our experience is the pencil. Our blood the ink.

We cry as we picture our best lines
Even when the lions chase and wolves flash their canines.

We go through pains that you enjoy our arts.
You and life. I mean you break our hearts.

Families depart. We were expected to manage companies
For sport they say is worth more than royalties.

But I see no royalty. I only see passion cracking out of my iron chest
And this wisdom who so torment me to you I give my best.

I see broken shadows I must craft to existence
I feel pains and agony row down the rivers of experience

And I have nothing but this card-board and this brush
Painting myself in different forms. I your crush.

Your crush? I your fiend.
But you call me your friend

And I see every honest lie. I pen terrible things.
I am the one that all your life's laws sting.

And this images haunt me day and night
My own imagination. My own fright.

My own making to whom I gave breathe and agility
In a cold blooded war with me

My own paintings horribly coming to life like ghosts
Hoasting a war upon their hosts.

This art is not just knowledge. Knowledge is not enough
This art is expensive. Currency is not enough

To pay for their deaths. Broken families
Tattered childhood. Traumatic fantasies.

Faulty parentage. Way-ward independence
Street hooliganism. Selfless existence.

Everyday I paint myselfin diver colors. This my art
My love. We will never part.