update & old poem

This blog post is a conglomeration of unrelated things so bear with me.

Those of you who follow me on facebook have most likely already read the following paragraph, but I wanted to share it on my blog as well.

Needless to say, I have been quite disconnected from the online world recently. A few weeks back, I deleted my personal facebook, and it's been ages since I've updated any of my sites with new photographs. But know that I haven't stopped creating- it's quite the opposite. In these past several months of online inactivity, I've rediscovered my passion for drawing. This is 

not to say I'm giving up photography! I could never. But my attention is currently diverted and engulfed in this other medium of expression. I'm still young and learning what I love, and I'll always be exploring different ways to express myself. 

I'll put together a blog post of some of my drawings during my Christmas break, which has commenced as of today! 

Today I've been organizing my sketchbooks, notebooks, computer files, etc. This afternoon I came across a poem I wrote at sixteen for a high school English class. The assignment was to write in the style of Walt Whitman while having our poem include an assortment of random things (i.e.- a song lyric, a plant, etc.) I had so much fun writing this, and it's been interesting to take a glimpse into my younger mind. I've changed in many ways since I was sixteen (I'm now nineteen), but my mind is just as disturbed. Enjoy!

Papercuts 

I place my creation on the brilliant white tiles, And crimson ribbons spill from his open throat, snaking down to meet the ground. 

This is the corpse of a young man,
Beautiful, sensual, blue-tinted, cold, lover.
I kiss his lilac lips, (So warm before)
His sallow skin chills my trembled fingers, and I am enamored by the him that he is now. 

A farmer snaps the neck of a plump-breasted chicken, and feasts upon her savory flesh,
A lumberjack saws through the heart of the Sassafras, and lounges upon her mutilated remnants,
And I am no different than these,
And you are no different than me,
Do not all men derive pleasure from the death of another? 

For it was my hand that dragged the blade through his thin-skinned throat, 
It was my tongue that savored the metallic taste of his warm, cherry blood,
And my ears that were deaf to his harrowing cries, begging me to stop,
Mewling, whimpering, blubbering, 
She’s the blade and you’re just paper. 

He is still now, while my heart thumps hot blood through tangled veins, 
My eager fingers knead themselves into the ashen flesh of his static chest,
As I bury my face in his canvas of colorless skin, 
I am intoxicated. (He reeks of lemons and cinnamon and quiet, quiet death) 

Pulling back, I behold the wonderous constellations of freckles in his skin,
And connect them with my dagger--connecting the stars, 
While disconnecting his head from his neck, and his legs from his hips, and his hands from his wrists,
Pieces of you, bathed in brilliant scarlet. 
(Never has a girl been so in love)

If you'd like to stay updated on my current artistic endeavors and take a look into my sillier side, my instagram is @cristilopez7. I realize that my art blog makes me seem incredibly dramatic, but I really am a ham.

Thank you lovelies for reading this far! I hope your Christmas season is joyous. ♥