Street art | De malinha pronta

Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.

HENRY WARD BEECHER

Art is a line around your thoughts.

GUSTAV KLIMT

Color is the place where our brain and the universe meet.

PAUL KLEE

Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.

PABLO PICASSO

Photos : Filipa Moreira da Cruz 

Source: Street art | De malinha pronta

Revisiting a Reminder: Don’t Count Me Out | From Behind the Pen

Image Credit:  kai Stachowiak

The song Cher sang, “You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me,” from the movie “Burlesque” is one of my battle cry songs. To all of you who feel like you’ve been brought down to your knees, to the point of breaking (I am included), I employ you to stand up, straighten your back, and fight for the self-preservation of your mind, body, and spirit. When they count you out, no matter who “they” may be, count yourself in. You are a Warrior!

Winning the battle

Adamant

Rising to the occasion

Resolute

Introspection and examination

Overcoming obstacles

Running with determination

Originally published on From Behind the Pen (July 20, 2022)

Source: Revisiting a Reminder: Don’t Count Me Out | From Behind the Pen

“The Cigarette Girl” by Dawn Pisturoni – MasticadoresUsa // Editor: Barbara Leonhard //

Image by taylor-JtreQ9ybG50-unsplash
An unlit cigarette dangled carelessly from her mouth.
Dark eyes glowed with ecstasy
As pointed fingernails dug furiously into her palm.
She inhaled sharply with each bloody gouge,
Enjoying the pain and sight of blood
Running onto the concrete floor.
She was known in the neighborhood as
The Cigarette Girl
Because she never smoked the damned things
But liked the taste of nicotine
Hanging on her tongue.
It was cool, she thought,
Like a female version of Marlon Brando
Or Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper,
Riding their bikes outside the law
And giving it to the Man.
She liked the smell of black leather
And how it felt against her skin.
She was a bad girl, all right,
And her parents knew it.
She was marching to the beat of her own drum, they thought,
And shouldn’t be steered in another direction
Until the voices in her head forced her to change.
 
She wrote poetry with a black marker
On the walls of her basement prison
And spoke in unintelligible words
To the rats she kept as pets.
 
The drum never changed its rhythm,
The voices never changed their tune,
The Cigarette Girl never stopped chewing on that damned cigarette.

Copyright © 2024 Dawn Pisturino
All Rights Reserved

Source: “The Cigarette Girl” by Dawn Pisturoni – MasticadoresUsa // Editor: Barbara Leonhard //

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