Art. Everything. Pointless. Whimsical daring bold stick figures color blotches swatches hues and clues madness worthless conformity of lines rules forward straight insanity dreams spirit revolution boredom intricate detailed corrosion of well being that seems to Neutralize when engaging In my craft. mysterious welling of creative wild abandon that explodes through my fingers eyes lips. Consuming emotions of raw hurt anger and insecurities boiling over onto canvasses wood and paper molding my being into the sensitive soulful extension of god who bestowed the gifts of talent and the never ending hunger for satiety for exploring my work and unconscious. Trash. The scary hidden dark corner i carefully open through brush strokes that i discover the true nature of my purpose. My calling. Whether i fight or embrace it, ignoring the needs for portraying all the feelings and questions i cannot name nor would care to. Artist start movements, color pavements, soften cement through spray cans and paints. Treasure. Questioning our selves and the words set in rules and in laws. Pushing envelopes and then cutting them up and using them to collage and light political fires. Finding by meaning by creating meaning. Encourage youth, turbulent impressionable youth with untamed expression of change with rhyming words which sing with the same timing of the heart beats of the brave and tortured. I know not the value of the work but the value allowing me to continue to create more beauty and thought provoking imaginings with my time. Not that we needed the validation, or monetary compensation. art is what i am made of and who I am and ultimately my existence. It is the thoughts behind my blank stares, tears and fury. Alive and inspired and discovering wholeness and through the search of love and our selves. And quiet. And that beautiful elusive moment when everything inside is. Still.