The Abstract Art Gallery
Broken, confused writer Jack Thomas puts the images in his mind on display in this "Blog." He dives into personal experience and his observations of the world to share his take on morality, childhood trauma, creativity, relationships, sex, politics, religion, violence, reality and more. Using countless formats from narrative driven short stories, to poetry, to song lyrics and philosophical explanations.
...crumbling infrastructure.
From buildings to dust, living to fertilizer.
The true power of the moving arrow is infinite beyond understanding.
The tower of then and now stands tall overseeing every second.
Time sits on its thrown, bleeding its immense influence waterfalls over all.
Its influence which reaches into the depths of perception itself.
Cruel time with its dark sense of humor.
It’ll patiently discipline another through years of dedication.
And after long enough...
Reality
Obscure, Subjective
Changing, Morphing, Evolving
Nothing Is For Sure
Wavelength
No One Thing Is Real
The All Is Mental, Static
Global Consciousness
Understand, You Don't See Reality
It Is An Illusion, A Fantasy
The Truth Is Simply Blurred
As Is What You've Heard
Subjective Experience Is Just Thought
...we always do this twisted little dance.
And we fight.
And we get over it.
And we fight.
And we get over it.
There’s no reason when either of us can’t quit on the other.
But we don’t.
Regardless of whether or not I ignore her for entire days at a time.
Whether I tell her my deepest truths or not.
Whether who I show up as is truly me or the lie I’ve made up.
She’s always there.
Always teaching me more.
Always making me better.
Always making me whole.
So I’m always here.
And I’m a bastard.
But I’m still here.
Who she saw as a child is not who she sees now.
Those are two different people.
My innocence...
...Kid’s sight taught to fight, not opt to sit. Slight opposite, aight? Knock, knock the shit.
His brain high. Tame, fine. Yet, came night and fight or flight after crime. Same time, saw the light. “Who’s there?”...
Read MoreStruggle writing words?
Get over it and write, now!
You’re holding YOU back!
And you won’t get anywhere without work
Without struggle, sweat, pain, anger and hurt
It might seem quite stark
At times a bit dark
But writing must be treated like a flirt
Dedication
Focus, Determination
Challenging, Disciplining, Teaching
Minds That Want Work
Sit!
...Anyway, one homeless man tells the other,
“I found a head on the sidewalk!”
Gunshots.
Hookers run out of a basement.
Madness!
Chaos!
Limpdick photo with the power of levitation.
Flies weird.
Heavy on one side.
Carrying the children to safety.
The meat festival.
Let’s throw confetti.
We only have meat.
Is Rapunzel a redhead or am I seeing things?
Why’s this dumb bitch putting her hair all up in other people’s apartment windows, anyway?
Cardboard citizens run from rain.
They’re scared they’ll dissolve!
This Just In!
Breaking News!
One John Doe found dead in Eddie’s Pub.
Evidence says an abduction took place, too.
This just in!
American drug kingpin killed yesterday.
A gruesome display suspected to be the work of gangsters...
...handing out disfigured outlines of lust
In their hunt for truth
Parallel oval prints in the dust against the window
And the flame has become fixated
Mesmerized by the delicate handprint
Top right
With knuckles for a wrist
Two round neighbors downstairs
Below them, a spread out hand
Fingers aimed down with no wrist
Clouds spread their rain mist
To reveal the hidden bits
The flame clearly missed
Shoulders with arms raised high
A disfigured frizzy head
Starts over the shoulders
Ends waist high
The clouds clear out
For...
...And he waits. And he waits. And he waits
He’s blue holding his breath while he waits
For the bone
For the bone
For the bone
For the bone
Why not throw the dog a bone?
And he waits, and he’s watching the meat dance, and it marches into her hands
Before she CHOMPS!
He chops too. He chops Two. He comps Three. But no bone
He licks one...
Creation is destruction at its maddest. Meticulous replacement of a status. Attention to the saddest and baddest, their malice.
The chalice of invention is hurt.
A palace called work.
Callous intentional imbalance
To mention greater talents
Expel it, let them have it, the canvas
...wanders too often for every day words to describe the experience.
A psychopath’s mind is a jumbled mess of cold rationality and brutal, numb disconnects. Raw numeric sequences with zero imagery. A void packed with information for the sixth sense. The one of thought. A sense impossible to explain using verbal language. A psychedelic trip which has to be experienced to be understood.
When the paper and pen work together magic happens. Genius at their job. They manage to decipher anything they’re dealt. The right words become clear. They are fit into the five basic senses. Seen and touched.
Although less of a broken mess, still a broken mess. Those unrelated might never understand what each word means or stands for. But all that’s really important is for my corrupt eyes to get the ideas they convey.
Once the echo has been removed from the walls of my mind and converted to words it’s easy to face them.
Part of me is scared. A coward. Afraid of what these twisted thoughts might mean. I control their world on paper, though. I am the Alpha and Omega of the thoughts that lands before me.
And I’m all powerful. Gifted the ability to read and comprehend versions of me that no longer exist. Abusing...
Read More...are persistent with their illusions. They’re confusing. Faded narratives tell fuzzy stories. And morph into something else entirely. Too fast to draw conclusions from, there is no concrete fact in these visions.
With no other stimulation above, the world from below rises. Its inhabitants loud and chaotic. Methodically, they proceed to break what’s left of me. Tearing my will down is all they hope for. Opportunists who’ve waited for a lack of distractions to raise...
Read More...struggle is from within
And it’s great if words get down
But that’s just one round
To satisfy the thoughts bouncing around
There’s more to do
The thoughts aren’t quiet
There’s more sound
And it’ll get done
Quite quick
And it’ll get down
And it’ll get finished...
Read More...skies for a way to save her or kill myself. The celestials have abandoned space and time. The Count was lost for how many times the day was relived. It could be in years by now and I’d never know.
It’s irrational that memory is retained if the entire space-time of a day goes in reverse. Memory should be lost in the reverse order that it was learned, but I remember it all. I should be unaware of this loop. Perhaps this is punishment for the way I’ve lived my life.
It has beaten me. Countless times I’ve given in and simply witnessed her die. It’s not malicious. It’s destiny. It can’t be helped. I’m trapped.
She’s still quite...
...coming back later to look through it is more alluring. There will be gems if there is enough to search through.
The creator knows what the purpose of their world is because they’ve made it clear. Later working on disguising each word and adding a poetic twist. Metaphors. The time to fix will arrive. And then the universe shall be enjoyable. And then the universe will be entertaining for its inhabitants and observers.
But none of this is possible if the world, the universe never gets made. There must first be something to fix.
To create without restraint is true discipline. To drag whatever out of imagination land. To dive deep and pull out emotional and personal truths is a skill which requires immense focus.
All white empty canvases require artists to give them purpose. To be brought to life. Something is better than nothing, and a little bit of momentum might snowball.
And clever words might imagine...
...in the mental palace.
The lights are off.
There’s a monster hidden inside this.
Titled liar by reflections.
Imposter syndrome with an echo.
It came from that direction.
Inevitably watching sunrises can become a way of life.
Living a perpetual crisis.
Panic mode, the final form.
Seconds before the bomb blows,
The wire is...
...the pretender isn’t strong enough.
Not to calm fears of recoding the system.
Not to forget margin for error.
Zipped lips with sick slick words and an unpickable locks tick quick building up for the explosion.
Increasing pressure meeting resistance must be equal or greater in energy value to said resistance to avoid collapse. Overfilling can result in a system breach and total failure of resistance.
Imaginary handcuffs for the judged
Ignorance holds the key.
A prison cell of conformity.
Embodied...
