My 5 Sentence Manifesto

If your art doesn’t mean anything to you, don’t expect it to mean much to someone else. You are what you make; what you create. Never pressure yourself to make something amazing all the time, the unexpected is what tends to succeed the most. The days when you don’t feel like an artist just remember that you are no different than Picasso. We are human.

Art Classes

  
“Stop” by Luz Miranda (acrylic paint, cardboard, sumi ink, paper, and plastic on canvas).

Me in art school. 

I feel like it would’ve been boring because I see the same thing EVERYWHERE. 

It’s the same kind of bullshit with fakish people.

I don’t really understand what makes something art. Because most of these people in my classes don’t really know how to explain what they’re doing.

It’s not a bad thing. There’s definitely obvious talent with some of these artists. 

But the definition of art has been corrupted and made to think “anything is bullshittable.”

If it’s bullshit to an artist, does it have to mean something to the viewer?

This makes me question whether it’s like this only is higher education art. I feel like something made in high school or elementary school is more valuable to the artist than it is in college.

But I could be wrong.

Anways, I expected art classes to be fun and experimentational. But it’s honestly nothing I haven’t seen before.

Is this it? Is that all the art world has to offer? To what extent is it enough?

Maybe it’s just because I’m in a shitty art program. I don’t know. I just hope art classes at a different school isn’t so bad.

I want to see something different.

Not just everyone trying to bullshit.

To my Ex

  
First off, I decided to respond to you in this way so that you can maybe stop bothering me. 

I no longer intend to conversate with you. This will be the last time I say something to you.

Thank you. For your nice words and most importantly for apologizing. But know that I don’t care anymore.

I don’t wish you any harm and if anything I wish you the best happiness in the world.

I’m fine, I really am. I’m with the most amazing human being right now that I love him so much. I can only hope you meet someone and feel the same thing I feel for my boyfriend, my best friend.

I’m glad that you “fuck” because you wouldn’t stop talking about it when we were together. 

I swear to God, not having sex with you was the best decision I ever made in my life. Besides, finally leaving you.

There were good times, I’m not going to lie. I appreciated your friendship and at my young age, it was cool to have a friend like you.

I hope you learned a couple of things from this. Including not hurting people you “love.” 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry too. 

I’m not a horrible person, I tried to tell you that I’m here for you and that I’m your friend. But obviously that didn’t work.

So here’s my last goodbye to you. Please leave me alone. Honestly, I hope you find your nirvana. Where you feel no pain or agony. 

Make something out of your life. I believe in you. Always have and always will.

I blocked you from my cellphone, Facebook, Instagram. So please, don’t make me block you from my email. 

Be well jc.

Words/Sentences that describe me.

Oh.

Okay.

I mean I guess.

I’m tired.

Nothing.

Bored.

I love you.

You’re annoying.

Shut up.

I miss you.

Everyone sucks.

Life is so beautiful.

How come people aren’t always this nice?

Introvert.

Liberal? Conservative?

Religion.

Black on black.

Pro black, not anti-white

White privilege is real.

I’m a minority.

Feminist 

Passive suicide.

My eyelashes are falling out.

Stressed.

Hungry.

Ashamed.

Embarrassed.

Maybe a little shy.

Panic attacks.

Anxiety attacks?

All I know is that I can’t breathe sometimes.

Twitching.

Chest

Pains

Unhealthy.

Low anemia.

Anemic royalty?

I like tea.

Don’t drive.

I don’t trust people.

Paranoid 

Don’t like new experiences sometimes; it gets me nervous.

Socializing drains

I like people.

But do they like me?

Love me.

I’ve never loved someone this much.

I think you’re the one.

Help.

I’m scared.

My process

This is a small part of me.

Of my process.

Please enjoy this beautiful process and this beautiful human being.

This is my grandmother. May her soul rest in peace.

Miss you tita.   
    
    
    
    
 
 
   

Middle School Depression

  
Names in this poem are changed.

I didn’t consider myself the most popular.
If anything I was the least popular.

I was only known because my face was somewhat “pretty.”

I dated guys.

To be accurate, I dated six boys. Good thing that only two made me cry.

No sex.

I was raised Roman Catholic.

I was an insecure kid.

Insecure about my upper lip hair because I would get bullied for it by some kid named Ricky.

Ricky said “you have a mustache” and I was ashamed for the rest of the upcoming middle school years.

Ashamed of my face.

Ashamed at the natural growth of my body hairs.

For some reason girls had to have no hair. Anywhere.

I was peer pressured to do my eyebrows because they were “too thick.”

I regret it today, because I had thick beautiful black eyebrows that back then I saw and ugly and horrifying.

Needless to say, I did them myself as thin as I could.

I was even bullied by my own family because of my dark under eye bags. It was considered ugly.

My cousins always reminded me everyday that I was a “bitch.” 

For reasons I never understood. I was only twelve.

I still felt like a misfit. I felt suicidal.

Things got worse. Believe me. They did.

I pretended to be okay but I wasn’t.

Who am I? I would always question myself. 

Who the fuck am I.

One day some girl said something that would change my self esteem forever.

Her name was Sophia.

She yelled at me “you look like a Jew from the Holocaust.”

Let me help you understand.

Not only was this a horrible thing to make fun of, but she was basically saying I looked like I was starving to death because of how skinny I was.

I was basically only bone.

From that day on, that is how I saw myself.

A piece of nothing.

Just bone.

I looked at myself in the mirror and I hated it. Hated every inch of my body.

I hated my freakishly long legs and my boobless chest.

I even started wearing bras that were two sizes bigger than my actual size.

I hated myself because I didn’t look like them.

The pretty girls with the big boobs and butts.

Something that I will never have.

I slowly started to realize that I will always be sad. That nothing could make me feel happy again.

And nothing did.

Until I started to occupy myself with church.

I finally found people who would expressively say that they are depressed and that something was missing in their life.

I found people who took time to listen to others. 

I found people who believed that there was something bigger than me and then everyone.

I found refuge in God.

“I am beautiful!” 

I remember that retreat.

I cried.

The preacher said “there is someone in here that is insecure and that is suffering accepting who they are.”

That got to me.

Real or fake, it made me think about reconsidering loving myself.

And so I did. Not for long though.

And that’s another story.

That would probably be told in “High school depression.”

Where I attempt suicide and meet more douche bags.

Autobiography

Aw would you look at the baby.

Fucken miserable hearing her parents fight.

Analyzing words of hate.

Word by word.

Tearing, ripping, shedding her heart apart.

Tears down her face-

You murderer.

How could you,

A heart so fragile.

You worthless piece of shit.

She said,

She knew,

Fuck life fuck friends fuck love.

Let me be a whore.

She said-

Maybe that would help.

Took nudes for dudes.

Without sex.

Duh!

What is sex?

Ew!

Oh. Okay.

Drugs.

Nah, not my thing.

Maybe putting myself down?

Crying every night.

Cutting myself.

Overdosing on pills..

Yeah, maybe that would work.

Illusion.

Wanting love,

Needing love.

She was 13.

He was 18..

Sex,

Passion,

Masturbation,

Illegal,

Prohibited,

Dangerous,

Love.

She thought

He was the one.

Ha! Bullshit.

Fuck me!

She said touch me,

He said suck me.

God sent him; it was meant to be.

She sucked him.

Sucked him good; Sucked her heart out.

He sucked her innocence; Sucked her dry.

She was young,

Hurt,

Manipulated,

Forced,

Unhappy,

Disappointed.

She thought spiritual connection.

He thought sex.

“Fuck me,

I wanted someone to love me.”

Fell again.

And again.

Fell harder. Got harder.

Need sex. Want sex. Want love. Need love.

She was unhappy.

Until she was saved.

Picasso,

Monet,

Basquiat,

Warhol,

Kruger,

Cobain,

Made love to her.

She fell hard.

She found love.

In a world..

Full of passion,

Truth,

Infinite interpretations,

Never ending dreams.

She was free.

She had a voice.

She was infinite.

She no longer had to hide;

Found herself.

And yeah, you guessed it,

That girl was me.

The girl you see is the girl you knew.

A better, updated version.

I might not say much,

Might not express myself with you.

My art does that for me.

But that’s because I hate you and your opinion.

You let me down once and I won’t let you do it again.

Fuck your expectation of me.

I’ll prove you all wrong.

Only I’m in power to what my life is going to be. Of what I’ll become.

I make my own choices.

You manipulative freak.

Who are you?

I’m always bad at this.. introductions.. introducing myself. I guess there’s never a good way to know someone thoroughly with just reading their bio or artist statement. I’ll need to give you more than that.

Weird way to see it, but I’ll be losing my virginity through this new website. Reason being, because I never show the real me to anybody. Only a few people really know me; at least, that what I tell myself. It takes a lot from me, being an introvert, to be myself and not be afraid of humanity.

Its hard to express myself anywhere else that is not my phone or my computer or my mirror. Therefore, I chose to contact the world and humans through the internet.

Through art, explicit poetry, photography, and some weird rambling like this, I will let you all know who I really am.

I am (I was suppose to insert¬†some deep shit that I couldn’t figure out. WTF I already suck.)