Process of Drawing a PictureThe Process of Drawing a Picture.I. IdeaA. Following all the steps in orderB. The importance of never getting ahead of yourselfII. Realizing the IdeaA. Getting a mental idea of the pictureB. Making a rough sketchC. Improvising the sketchD. Taking a look at the sketch from afarE. Filling in the real detailsF. Finding the source of lightG. Lightly shadingH. ColoringI. Completing the shadingJ. Digitalizing the pictureIII. The finished ideaStep by st
VineyardsIt's the day that stands hotAnd your tongue heavy in your mouthFingers curledLand unknownThe familiar is the strangeThrow it away you didIt's no longer your homeDon't dare come crying to meWhere have all the vineyards gone?
These Four WallsOnce there sat a little manIn a little room.The same four walls every dayFor weeks and months and years.His only reprieve came in the form of booze and cigarettesAnd the lighted screen on the wall.Outside it was cold The snow drifted against the house.The streets were cold and empty.Downstairs the television played to no oneAt least no one he cared about.He thought of paradiseLands far awayBitterness grew the more he thoughtThe more he wishedHe didn't realize who he was becomingWaiting there, His passion smoldering.He dreamt of wide open spacesWhere nothing impeded accessAnd no one hurt anyone else.He
Red RoseYou stand dogged against the laughterlittle red rose of mineYou know their words don't matteronly you will know in timeWhere do you take controlwhen control cannot be foundThe clock is ticking slowbut not within your mindYou should have stopped to hearbut you were not mineI cannot show what you refuse to seelittle red rose of mineSomeday this will be all overlittle red rose of mineI know my words don't matteryou've taken all that's mineHow can I say goodbyeyou're saying helloYou have cast your spellbroken by my criesI should have listened to themI was warned of youNow I know my heart is emptylittl
HomeThe desert calls me like the ancient call of my pastIn the autumn, I can smell it in the airThe pink-red dirtThe cacti in the distanceSagebrush and juniper treesOh, and of course, the rabbits that used to sit under the windowAs Nana taught me how to sewThe little roadrunners, bobbing their heads as they dancedErratically in the shadowsThey were unafraid of the scorpions and the snakesAt night, you could hear the coyotes howlTheir little yipping sounds kept you up at nightAs well as the heatAnd the smell of the sap leaking through the wooden wallsAnd the white roofsOut in the desert, you are not aloneA man could
HumanThe city stands cold and supremeMighty hands draw mighty bladesEncrusted in cement, they tower skywardA symbol of the human desire to growTo liveTo be foreverI stand alone on the asphaltIn the crowdHow many of us have stopped to seeTo hear the warningsTo feel its painThe inner conflict of born of manTowers before me without disdainIn the end it will be meThe weight of my transgressionsWeigh on meAnd no one elseTime's life is never agingA man's thought is never spokenMy words are never heardThus our heart keeps beatingThe world is still turningBut I am standing still
No WillI hide thembut I still see the words,fresh in the visionof eager will.They are the wordsthat make my fingers bleed;no matter how harsh the stingthey take their strong punishmentfor strong disobedience.For the will they are colors,to hand all but void,between black and white'sdisarray.The temples of the cacophonybreak and bleed brightred rainto the fetter of the handof the visionary.Sometimes the strong are imprisoned by the powerless.
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