I be stroking
But mostly poking
At your intellect
Where your thoughts and my skills intersect
I’m opening you up
Pulling you apart with my art
Like sexy thighs on a Saturday night
I do it on paper, canvas, and ghetto walls
I do it lying down
Sometimes standing tall
Pushing the pink, stroke by stroke
Pushing the brown, trying to evoke
Your emotions, your feelings, something inside
Something that’ll make you think, that’ll make you cry
My work
Full of vibrancy
Full of vigor
Full of hope-like me trying to be your niggah
Trying to impress you with my color
Because a wall without art is like a poem without words
But my abstractions
May lead to your satisfaction
Or some sort of negative reaction
I open my soul
To a world that’s cold
But I keep stroking
Poking
Picture spoken
Like spoken word
My images be the nouns
My color be the verbs
Visual communications
Optic poetry
Sign my name so you’ll know it’s me
While the rest of the world buys art
For value and meaning
We buy it because it matches our couch.
Ouch!
Sometimes it seems like a big joke
But instead of laughing
I stroke
Trying hard not to be the punch line
Because getting hit hurts-there’s no debating
So instead of fighting – I keep creating
Art

Copyright 2007 by Tanaka. All rights reserved.