mistakes are forever
and regret is the undercoat
that primes your life

perhaps foolishly
on the surface
it might seem calmer
to forget the original dream
than to colour it over with
shades of new intention

when all you want to do
is bleed the red out of your eyes
until the copper rusts your face
and runs finally clear –
a dried salty ash
the only pock-marked
stain on your bloody canvas

the minimalist collector
your highest bidder

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 15 July, 2015


True art begins in the marrow of one’s desire and extends outward, like a vision, to many hearts.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 22 June, 2012


If I could depict the substance of my heart,
this mass of space (this massive room!)
would brand a masterpiece of art.

If I could write,
the composition would neither start nor end,
the meaning lost on tongues of lovers.
Yet, spoken soft or written proud
your name would glow its fame out loud:
expression shining strong and sound.

If I could activate emotion,
I would sway in craze,
but movement knows not this commotion;
but just,
with solitary devotion,
I mind the thoughts.

In silence I thrill.

I love you still.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 11 July, 2003