This morning like every morning I rise,
I walk, I eat and I do that is expected
I function, because it is the right thing to do.
To do less is to die.
I no longer live,
I exist.
The love of my life is gone and he won't be back.
I am alone, all alone
Strangers traveling to and fro surrounds me.
What's next? I do not know
With out doubt or hesitation I know that life for me has lost it's meaning
Day break no longer finds me willing to meet her.
The nights torture my soul.
My existing is without purpose.
Death so cruel.
Has stolen my love
has stolen my life.
death divided me I can be whole no more.
I the lost me!
Divine mind,
supreme intelligence,
tremendous and powerfully conceiving all things.
this thing called consciousness
lives in me
is the beginning and the end.
Purification
Dedication
a sincere walk of life.
a path of services and love.
well wishes and desires
intellectual knowledge alone did not do it.
imitation designed by a much higher level
of intelligence and spiritual perception.
at last have defined my existence.
I am no one, but everyone
I am me.
I am a true child of God.
Now that I am free of the great.
Picasso!.
As he held me in his arms,
I did not know,
within him laid the soul
of the great Picasso.
It was only after I began to take in hand
the pen and ink that I knew it was not me, in command
for I could not paint the things my hands demanded
loving women with vast thighs and making a spectacle of
themselves was brought alive.
my lover, the Picasso well hidden inside...
Well!
you see there is no lesbian in me,
but I knew,
that the spirit that controlled my hands
was in need to be set free,
No man!
I had ever know showed more frankness
and elegance than this lover of mines
somehow he knew
that with each experience would come something new.
I knew within him laid the great Picasso,
pushing my pen, and stroking my markers as he tantalized my existence.
"Sex, Alcohol and Drugs" his motto.
sexual intercourse, drove me wild,
as I traveled in the wildness,
the sheer pleasure of being.
my lover, made me forget almost everything,
with this forgetting I was able to do almost anything,
every day was born anew.
it was here, he gave birth to the great Picasso.
Picasso! Picasso Bill!
I did not understand why I painted women in the nude
until my lover Bill explained how it was not my will,
but the man that lived inside of him
controlling my body and soul at will.
My fear of painting women with luxuriant vaginal,
was only to be given to him,
so on board I painted on and on
given to pen and marker
I carried a mural of sexual deviated dialogues on board
these was given only to my lover, "Picasso Bill"
these revelations appears to me
a new Generation
that would make history,
these painting would make a name for him and me.
All because the Picasso did will.
I found these works remarkable
I never studied "Arts"
and I never held a desire
but when my lover came to me,
my hands felt like fire.
As my body took on pleasure,
and my mind wonder far in the future
always seeking new ideas that I never, never knew or desired
this Picasso moved from him to me so freely.
seducing each of us as we allowed him to control
he buried himself deep down into our souls.
From the retrospective that fills the whole of my soul
lies the great Picasso spirit of old
producing revelations
generations of remarkable truths
is the Picasso
and his spirit as it ruled
my hands, my mind, and demanded my time.
as I moved my fingers along the board
I knew,
theses were the fingers that would complete
what ever it started from head to feet,
now my works made more sense.
it's not me, but the Picasso.
Picasso! Picasso!
*The Real deal*
self expression
all fat and fine,
a broken down body of myself
that stood on board, that *I* found and designed
expressed by the Picasso as he lived in Bill's mind.
Truth in its fullness appears on my boards.
expressions of the Picasso
a long with Picasso Bill's whores
Now I understood,
these are the the commands of the Great Picasso.
images that I did not know
did not recognize,
could not have in my wildest imagination have designed or ordained.
these was ordered and designed by nothing other than the mind of a genius or a man insane.
these are final works of the Picasso.
living in Picasso Bill
slowly my lover and I departed as I fought to gain back my will.
so did the great Picasso
denied the freedom of expression he moved on,
denied the stimulation of expression my lover faded into the
yesteryear as did my paintings.
No longer able to nourished his needs he moved on.
I was the least satisfying of his great relationships confronting him with the inescapable truths.
"My Lover"< "My Picasso"
have taught me well,
The immensely gifted some of them crawled out of hell.
my giver seduced me
used me,
seduced me
and taught me that "Art" is a world with its own laws and logic. Nobody made him
no body makes me
Now my lovers gone and the Picasso at rest.
these are my last paintings as I performed at my best
Long live the great "Picasso" and Picasso Bill.
I have shuttle back an forth
between "Art" and "Experience".
between "Truth," and "lies"
and I painted my best with m lover by my side
and most of that time he was betwixt my things.
He held the great spirit of Picasso,
my creativity gave expression to my sexuality.
still I did not know that what was possessing me
was the great lover and spirit of Picasso.
I know nothing about straight lines, geometries,
nothing about angles
straight lines, or curves,
very few still lives did I ever desire to paint,
until the great Picasso gave Bill the yank.
and I work not with palettes and brush
none of these allegories of art gave me a rush,
not until the great Picasso moved inside, and stirred up all the
cooling fires.
How do I know its the Picasso?
He Picasso told me so.
As he moved around in my head,
one night as I laid in bed.
:A picture my girl is not thought out and settled before hand.
While it is being done it changes as one's thoughts change at will and at command."
These are the words of the great Picasso's.
These are the words that he said
"Transformation, communication, expression and rebellion is building your vocabulary.
So sit still and allow me to use you as I will."
As I laid with the spirit of the Great Picasso soon to paint the *Incubus.*
resting in my lover, was not enough
he had to seduce my purity
because he Picasso loved setting virgin women free.
Lying dormant until we could meet.
Picasso the spirit entered me.
My lover, my model now stood apart from me,
it was the only way the *Incubus* called Picasso would ever be free.
Now my lover and I was joined through the spectacle of my easel,
as he lay sleeping I created memories
that will live forever through the great Picasso,
as we made what is known as history
my reality,
the beautiful me,
the beautiful things of him, that sets free,
mot my invention,,
construction,
power of ideas,
these belong to yesteryear
unfulfilled by the great Picasso
although he lived ninety one (91) years,
this power giving coherence,
wholeness to my hand,
my mind is actual life awakening changing at his command
uncertain whats coming next
full of different aspects
what appears in various perspectives,
my works by Picasso seldom rejected. Like transportation
my works are conversations
held with the great Picasso
this is the reality of abstraction
I now realize this reversibility of transformation
laid domed all these years
waiting to take procession
these transformations of processes is mines only through the
Picasso living inside.
These paintings is my creation giving to me by the rested spirit of the Picasso
that was not allowed to come to completion while yet alive
these he gave to me,
and now they are painted, Mr. Picasso is at last free
My lover was always confusing me
disappearing like the great Picasso
a game called “Now yo see me, now you don't.�
in and out of my life-for thirty some years
I can now understand,
at last its over Picasso can rest again.
Slipping in and out of any situation he got himself in,
He labeled himself the Thief* as he began,
because he allow the great Picasso to take shape and form
I now,
I paint beauty and sat alone,
the traveling spirit of Picasso Bill won't stay at home';
stealing his life he enjoyed only the things that such greatness
as the great Picasso could.
I knew my lover never would
Nothing my lover did was tradition,
and when it came to sex there was no such thing as a position.
He loved women of all sizes, be they skinny, tall, fat did not
matter at all.
His erotic experience inspired by the great Picasso.
My pen and marker inspired by the spit of Picasso Bill,
a lover
a friend
always keeping his lover in the dark
slowly ripping out their hearts,
His pleasure was that of calculations
his voice was only heard in needed communication
he spread himself among us all
and was labeled the Great Bill Dog.
My great Picasso.
I had to tell this story before I go, and exist no more.
About a man and woman that Picasso gave great pleasure,
without wealth,
know it was not treasure of lasting peace
the pleasure was only performed by Picasso Bill on the sheets
for he moved it on to the streets,
and that was the end Picasso Bill and me.
Our treasure and pleasure is no more.
I could not play the part of Picasso's Bills whore
You see unlike Picasso I and my lover the world will never know.
No explanations could explain
this complicated and elusive works of my hands
because no one would believe that the spirit of the great Picasso
lives in a black woman and a black man,
this genius lives
he travel inside my ex lover bill.
In to my hands, giving my spirit his will.
I painted
I wrote
as he demanded this great Picasso,
He came and left with my man.
Author's Comment: 2017
I AM NOT A GREAT ARTIST, HAVE NEVER BEEN A GREAT ARTIST,
I PAINTED AND CREATED ART BECAUSE OF WHAT I FELT WHEN I WAS WILL BILL,
THEN IT BEGAN TO WAKE ME UP IN THE MORNING.
I WOULD SPEND HOURS JUST CREATING SITTING ON THE FLOOR.
BILL LOVED PICASSO SO. HE SPOKE OFTEN OF HIS WORKS,
AND I FOUND MYSELF READING A LITTLE ABOUT HIM,
WATCHING A MOVIE ON HIS BIO, ONE DAY I WAS DETERMINED THAT MY WORKS WAS DUE TO PICASSO, AND BILL.
3000 PAINTINS LATER, AND EVEN MORE POEMS I CALLED THEM THE FINISH WORKS OF PICASSO.
(A POEM OR SHORT SHORY CAME WITH MOST CREATIONS.
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