Change (Page 10)

A male arm, clothed in white, reaches out to point his index finger at you. The white-skinned hand has a plain, gold wedding ring on its ring finger.

Blame the speed limit for the ticket,
the intersection when it’s run,
and the law for the crime.

Blame the bullet for the war,
the knife for the cut,
and the stone for the corpse.

[continue]. . .

A garden of purple, pink, and white sweet pea flowers beside a trellis, with a single red rose blooming among them.

The beauty of a rose,
wrapped tight within the vines,
upon my trellis waiting,
just waiting for her time.

Bursting open, petals stretch
unto the light of day.
Exploding colors all around,
for Spring has come to stay.

[continue]. . .

Paper cut-outs of people's arms and the Earth. Each of the pieces is wrinkled, and the arms overlap each other. The arms are cut from many different colors of paper, which is reflective of the diversity of the human race. The Earth is cut from blue and green papers. All of the hands are pointed inward, toward the Earth.

Life is serenely complicated.
Some people try to stand out,
and by doing so hope to fit in
with others who do the same.
Me, I never wanted to stand out,
to be different, but I am.
I guess we all are, in our own way,
different that is.

[continue]. . .

The hands of an elder woman, dressed in black, holding a rosary while praying.

Her hair hung down in ashen curls,
on skin all snowy white.
Hazel eyes adorned her face,
her collar buttoned tight.

A rosary wrapped around her hands,
on which countless prayers were raised,
a gift from Mom, to a little girl,
that lasted all her days.

[continue]. . .

Black and white hand-drawn and inked artwork on fluorescent-green paper. A drawing of a young man (Cromwell Green) with his hands together in front of his face sits in front of a large moon. His forehead rests against his fists. Cromwell is dressed in black with three spiked wristbands on each wrist. His long, spiked hair hangs over his hands. His white eyes are devoid of pupils and irises.

Cowering in fear
a life without meaning
my purpose in vain
exist without feeling

I turn up the music
to the threshold of pain
drown out the voices
all shackled in chains

Don’t know where to go
there’s nowhere to hide
’cause you can’t run
from the monster inside

[continue]. . .