Samantha Bush Poems

When Day met the Night,
there was a story to tell.
About heavenly Light,
falling in love with Dark Hell.
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He stood at the tracks,
watching that golden flame of the setting sun,
slash to that bloody red.
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Dead is the kiss upon your lips
Yet still you move your tongue
Silly Silly
You've met dead Willy
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Destruction came swift on wings of bullets.
Hailing down upon the robotic nation.
No feeling of loss or mourning.
Heartless machines giving false tears.
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Plastered eyes viewing the world

Wishing up the rules
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There are a few things one must know about the famous Andy Warhol. One such thing would be the fact that he took the art world into more of an art business. Second his lifestyle was one he lived and took full advantage of. He had many people who would totally dropp their lifestyles and join him in his film work, and live in his art building “The Factory”. Third of all...in his time area everything he did, every move he made...was unheard of. People just didn't do the things he did. It wasn't of the time.


Many think that his paintings were the death of real art, and something entirely different then art. It pushed the people's minds and forced them to see what could be, instead of what is. Most art up to late 1950's had been realism. Fully following the picture in front of them. Like a photo without a camera. When Andy decided to mix in high intensity colors with other clashing, bright colors...many saw this as the death of art. Though his work inspired many to push the usual mediums of art such as paint and canvas to thing much more vast. Thus began the division of Pop-Art vs. Fine Art.
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She buried her nose in the oversized book. Fine arts and pictures from the bible lay within the folds of the massive pages. She scanned over it all, drinking it in. The artwork made her simply stutter for words. Yet she found it very empty altogether. It was all the same thing over and over, the crosses, the fashion….the wars and the bloodshed. If it hadn’t been for the titles, she feared she never would have known the difference from one battle picture to the next. It saddened her. To see something so expressive compacted into the same thing. Even the impressionists still portrayed the usual life scene.
Clair twirled her earring. She was beginning to grow impatient. Letting the book slip from her hands, a violet thud echoed in the library. “Shhhhh” was heard over and over from different corners of the room. “Alright alright…” She stood, returning the book to its place on the shelf with the thousands of other untouched books. “Nothing in you heap compared to the Andy Warhol.” She turned her back on the books and walked away, trying to make an obvious statement to the books, but soon felt foolish after seeing a few watching her. They would still be there, those books. No matter what she did.
“Where is he? ” Clair waited inside the library. Her cheek pressed against the cool glass. Looking out she watched the people pass by with their oversized umbrellas, and clear rubber boots. All rushed by as taxi cabs hit the puddles of water, causing mini tidal waves to hit the cement walk ways. Finally a taxi pulls up and Andy motions her forward.
“In, before you get drenched.” Andy slid further into the cab, to the other side. She ran from the library to the car, trying the best to dodge the icy bullets. Though when Clair sat down on the old seats of the cab, she knew her attempt had failed miserably. Andy hadn’t even said hello to her. Then she perked up, maybe they were past the small talk hellos.
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Your blood-red petals gleam,
Catching to the eye.
In my bed of death,
There you will lie.
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Death be the name,
Of the souls that go unclaimed.
As mortals walk,
Mark them well.
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Can a morsel on the tongue of many compare to nothing on the tongue of America?
Taken for granted as if ravaging the word’s generosity.
Fat lard corrodes greedy minds, theft committed through scams.
...