fuckyeahillustrativeart:

cross-connect:

Sam Weber born in Alaska is a New York-based illustrator, awarded a Gold Award by The Society of Illustrators and the Spectrum Annual. He graduated from The Alberta College of Art and Design in Calgary, before completing a Masters at The School of Visual Arts in New York. His current clients include Time, DC and Rolling Stone.

Posted to Cross Connect by Margaret

image

Pen/Umbra

light

this light casts a shadow on me,

one side,

one half,

but I am trapped between the light and the darkness,

this penumbra

a shadow draping itself across my cheek,

cloaking my left arm

and covering my hips

this shadow of the past

from yesterday, last week, last month and beyond

it is so warm and inviting

I feel safe in this cloak of my past

all that has happened up until now

the moment the colour rushed to my cheeks when I saw you

and when I was drained of my blood completely, when I saw you

(with her)

when every meal I ate was a plateful of screws and nuts and bolts and slowly my energy escaped from my shell of a body

when I was pinned up against a wall and swords were thrown at my body by my best companion,

my soul mate,

this blanket of darkness pulls me further back,

it grows arms and legs and claws and grips and seizes me

but I see this light,

this aura,

it is unclear of its shape but I see flashes of myself in the future

in a city where no one knows my name

but where I have found myself

surrounded by faces new and old,

who have lifted me above their heads and are passing me along, in a crowd

until I see you,

whoever you are,

you are so opaque

but I can see your smile from this darkness

and beside you, whoever you are,

stands me:

buoyant, vibrant, clear, strong

my head no longer swivels on my shoulders but is screwed on tight

and my eyes are fixed on one point and breathe life into whatever they are fixated on

I look so sure of myself,

I look like me

and this light brushes my right hand,

and my right temple,

and my right thigh

stroking me gently,

summoning me

she is so vivid and kind

but this darkness,

he is so strong and rough

I have been back to the umbra many times,

sucked back into the blackness until the light disappears

it is the only home I’ve known and where my mind wants to go

but this light is so new,

I can stand in front of her,

move into the antumbra,

move in front of the darkness, escape the grasp and shower myself in her

in this new me,

who I want to be,

the struggle persists,

he is my serpent in the garden of Eden,

the Jekyll to my Hyde,

the strongest bottle of absinthe,

and so I am stuck

in this penumbra

shadow clutching; light washing

and I must turn my gaze inward and decide:

which force will I allow to win?

which force will rule me from now on?

the Apple

today,
while waiting for the 8th Avenue train
a woman with a straw hat and a shopping cart told me:
“Today is going to be a good day for you”
and for once,
in a long time,
I believed her
I believed I no longer had to sit alone with my thoughts in my Davisville apartment
I believed I could walk down 9th to 34th and 35th and 36th and not shatter into a million pieces
I believed I could finally find myself as a whole
and not pieces:
my upper lip on Queens Quay,
or my right elbow on King,
or my grafted skin on College
no,
here, I am one
I am everything that has happened to me
and everything that will happen
I can speak uncensored at the little girl on the train with a yellow sundress
I can leave my laughter echoing across Brooklyn
and my breath floating on my favourite rock in Central Park
I can pass people on Lexington and not break eye contact –
because I want them to look at me
I want them to see me, all of me
and all I am worth
because no one knows me here
and it is so exhilarating to know that they can know me
all of me,
uninhibited
not carrying ten or eleven or twelve bags’ worth of past anguish on all my limbs
they see me here
my soul is alive here
amidst the millions
for too long I have searched for a place of solace and strength
and if you had asked me three years ago if I loved it here
I would rip my hair to shreds and close my eyes and think of home,
Toronto,
but now
if you asked me:
where is home?
if you asked me:
where are you yourself?
if you asked me:
where are you the most happy?
light blue and yellow light streams across my face
and I breathe a little easier
and I sit a little taller and I say:
New York City
because on hundred year old streets
clustered with thousands of strangers
surrounded by words from all over the world
I have found myself.

ionicsky:


extrasad:

Fuck. It’s ironic how empty I am because 
I swear 6 months ago I had the universe inside
of me but I cried the rivers in my bones dry.
The volcanoes in my chest erupted when you told
me you didn’t love me anymore and lava flooded
my body and hardened till I stopped sleeping.
I had stars in my lungs but I burned them
all out with the cigarettes I was smoking
to get you the fuck out of my throat. The
flowers growing at the bottoms of my 
stomach are dead. Apparently you  
can’t water flowers with vodka.
I had the sky in my veins but it’s
been pretty fucking stormy since I
ripped them open. I had planets 
on the tip of my tongue but
the debris from the shattered 
remains of “us” have been
crashing into them. I was
everything. And then I met
you and we were everything.
Now you’re fucking some
blonde girl who gets
high all the time and
I’m a fucking
mess.

this is my favorite fucking poem ever ever ever

ionicsky:

extrasad:

Fuck. It’s ironic how empty I am because 

I swear 6 months ago I had the universe inside

of me but I cried the rivers in my bones dry.

The volcanoes in my chest erupted when you told

me you didn’t love me anymore and lava flooded

my body and hardened till I stopped sleeping.

I had stars in my lungs but I burned them

all out with the cigarettes I was smoking

to get you the fuck out of my throat. The

flowers growing at the bottoms of my

stomach are dead. Apparently you  

can’t water flowers with vodka.

I had the sky in my veins but it’s

been pretty fucking stormy since I

ripped them open. I had planets 

on the tip of my tongue but

the debris from the shattered 

remains of “us” have been

crashing into them. I was

everything. And then I met

you and we were everything.

Now you’re fucking some

blonde girl who gets

high all the time and

I’m a fucking

mess.

this is my favorite fucking poem ever ever ever

"You should not
have to rip yourself
into pieces to keep
others whole."
i am seeing less and less of you (via wring-out-the-rain)
"You were unsure which pain is worse — the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will."
— Simon Van Booy, Everything Beautiful Began After (via feellng)
D.H.

unfortunately for you,
this poem is based off of real events, places and people
for you: D.H.
to look at your name makes me sick
physically incapable of breathing
keeping down the rise of poison in my lungs
infiltrating my veins,
slowly cracking my bones
this poison is a gnarly concoction of anger and guilt and hurt
for you, D.H.
of which all of this should not be wasted on
but alas, such is love right?
love is willingly letting someone wait for you as you walk the streets of this city with another
that’s love, right?
love is letting someone waste away, miss meals, sleep for days and never have a dry face
that’s love, right?
love is sitting not a month later with someone else on a streetcar while I watch you hold her hand
that’s love, right?
if that is love, then so must be
promising not to hurt someone
telling someone to stay when all they want to do is go
cooking too many meals for that person
too many salty meals
I never told you this, D.H.,
but your first potatoes were too salty
as was that coq au vin
and so are you:
too salty
not enough sweet
I have never wished ill will on anyone
but I wish that for you
I hope one day that you see someone that you believed you might have loved,
if given the chance,
walking down the street with someone else
not a month later
and your heart stops
and you try to breathe
and calm
but your left side goes numb,
as did mine,
and your heart hurts,
as did mine,
and I hope that you fall over
and you gasp and you clutch the Queen West sidewalk
and you look for help
but no one rescues you
no one saves you
because if you don’t use your heart,
why should you have one?
if you don’t love anyone, why should you still have that what makes you love?
that what skips two extra beats when you run a hand down a spine?
that what aches when that person is gone?
that what stops when it’s over?
if all you do is keep and gather and amalgamate secrets that others give you
willingly
and all you do is store them on your hard drive to save
but you give nothing in return,
why should you have a heart?
truthfully, it makes me sad to see you without one
falling from one person into the next,
slipping slowly but gaining nothing but secrets
and giving nothing
but I give e v e r y t h i n g, D.H.
I never forget what is said to me
I never forget what your touch feels like
I never make promises I can’t keep
but evidently:
you can
and if that makes you happy
(which is fucked)
and if you can continue on as such
(which is fucked)
and if you can live with yourself
(which is fucked)
then good riddance
because although an earthquake erupted in my chest
and black crows swarmed into my eyes
and I tasted nothing but too much salt
and I almost fell back into the arms of my former pitied self
I remembered something:
one was that your tattoos are stupid,
two was that I missed your cat more than I missed you
but three was this:
I may love too easily,
but at least I love
at least I let my heart shine through my chest and beam
at least I let it be ripped out again only to build the muscle around it stronger
at least I can say I have loved and I am loved
maybe not by you, Dylan Hopman,
but you missed out on this insanely resilient
and endlessly beating heart of mine.

"Please tell me
I’m not as forgettable
as your silence
is making me feel."