Looking down
he saw where the tears of wine
had left their stains of disappointment
deep inside
the splinters of a broken table.
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Author: Armando Vieira Pedroso II
My artistic career had unconventional beginnings, after September 11, 2001 I was laid off from my corporate sales job of 18 years. It was at that time I "thought" I heard a voice within myself literally telling to paint and write. Since I had never done either I found it strange yet, I gave into the voice after so time of fighting it. I now say “if you don't believe in the voice of God /Jesus Christ, or being connected to your inner spirit...we need to talk.” I have seen firsthand countless doors of opportunity fly wide open for me, what laid beyond those doors of being laid off was this new person, this artist inside I never knew existed... all because I took the chance of listening to that small persistent voice inside myself.
As a painter/writer I deconstructs and reconstruct layers of roofing tar, plaster, wood, found objects, metals, symbol’s, rich acrylic colors and words to create inspirational and emotionally driven paintings and poems. Sometimes playful, gritty, deeps or with an urban feel, My art tries to capture the essence of what an individual's dream might look like if inspired to take that leap of faith.
raindrops
he hoped the lonely tears that fell down his cheeks
were like the raindrops that fall down from the sky …
for only a little while.
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plan b
old shadows
that hover over the rocks and stones
in front of him
lead him with the wicked echos of regret
that his life had only become
his plan b.
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window
the boy in the window
carving a broken heart in his breath,
realized the condensation dripping down
was like watching his tears…
die on his lips.
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van Gogh
he freed his fingers from my hand
to paint his own van Gogh
on the side of another square
he felt was a better fit.
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huckleberry
with a carnival balloon in hand
and paper banjos playing softly beside the river
he walked home,
pausing only for a moment
to released the fictional helium hope
of ever finding his own huckleberry …
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wasted
the pile of faded out t-shirts
that sit silent in the corner of an empty room
still have the scented memories
of his wasted kisses, lost loves,
and the absent knowing
of how to feel something for someone.
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yesterday’s
a soul torn in half
both cold and broken
takes pictures in the dark
of yesterday’s closing door.
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season
enduring the season
where wine numbs the hurt,
his feet push down old memories of missed loves
deep into the coarse shelled sand
where tides quickly wash away …
another year passed alone.
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winds
the hidden winds blew
and what was once written,
is now erased.
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Unfinished Souls 