Sunday, October 20, 2013


I burnt my favorite painting. I had to. I needed to.

All my other creations, all those random faces of shape, color and shade with a touch of illuded free will on canvas; none satisfied me. I was angry at them.

I started nailing nails for these painted paintings. Over bare surfaces of walls, each pair of eyes on each canvas made my room a witness.

I was out of canvas, paint and brush, but I had this room and these walls. I had my sweat, my blood. I had my nails and my claws.

I scarred the room, and the walls, painted murals of red lines and splatters of shapes and shades. Faces on the walls had to be reborn.

I could see the warmth of the red sun cast the shadow of a dead man on the floor. I smiled as I saw two parallel lines reaching for me from him. I was done. It was the creation of me in the boundary of canvas for the witness to see. Sun, burn me and I give the promise of return.

-Pouria Roshan

Thursday, October 17, 2013

My Stay

 I am bound to this voyage through myself. I will grab on the cloak of your moon. I fly towards you with closed eyes, until the drop of the last sand. This dried sea is escaping from the prison of these glass walls without corner. I’m standing on your stars and I see the vortex taking the earth in. I am standing on the ground and I see the clouds ascending. I will make a tower to reach your moon. I will fall towards you with my eyes opened wide. Let me in.

-Pouria Roshan