Photography by Neonbrand
I walked behind my heart, Covered up to the thighs in its rivers, freezing from the chill that it became since life served it grief beyond winters, only seeing the calm of blood that passed the rest of my body on the inside. we learned to flow together, to search for ourselves On the walls & floors of my flesh, with no control as I got closer to feel its beats, as blood became my Feet I swam without ever learning but knowing & feeling how weak I could be in its strength.
she was afraid of making the space hers, because it never felt like there was room for her to be who she wanted. maybe it was the stares & laughs who chased her mind over the years, the ones who taunted her identity, or the silent tears after giving her all to the space just to be rejected of her place. it all felt too familial & others never understood the difficulty in just standing & being in front of others, even in under a minute, a meeting of eyes
This mag explores situations within duplicitous demographics and highlights on a plethora of issues– some areas of double standards will be familiar to you, but many will force you to explore and interrogate your own perception and empathize with another perspective. In this issue, we include art, photography, articles, and poetry from various artists.
Photographers & Visual Artists of all mediums submit your original art to us to be considered for the cover of our No. 3 magazine.
Send high-quality images to INFO@GenreUrbanArts.com by December 1st.
Thank you so much for your support!
I wish I could reminisce like you for some sorta time and space I felt safe. But since a young age I had to learn to hold myself and know despite it all, I was still enough. But as you would have guessed, I didn’t know that and spiralled down a really dark path. No, there were no alcohol and drugs, there was something worse, the constant battle with crippling feelings of ‘not enough’.
Imagine growing up believing you should not exist at all. Imagine how would you turn out. I wish I could say I’m turned out ok, but I guess that’s not the complete truth. Even though you may see me holding it together, I’m no more found than you.
We’re lost and alone in the journey back home trying to grow along the way. Even if we do find souls that help us carry the load, in the end we’re the ones to answer to what we let go.
Maybe it would be easier had I learned differently from what my childhood branded in me. But I’ll never know and it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned to make of my self what brings me peace and let go of the misconceptions in my system of beliefs.
© Máh Lima
When am I considered an artist? I look at the great works of yesteryear and cannot but feel I pale in comparison.
I cannot but feel I do not stack up. How much do I have to sell? How much notoriety do I need? Should I fall towards infamy? The answers escape me. All I do know is when I am in the thicket of creation I feel invincible. It is as if the world lifts off my shoulders. I am almost superhuman. Grant it, I cannot lift heavy objects, or jump over buildings. I can, however, escape my insecurities and push myself with pen and ink.
Is that my super strength? Is this when I can consider myself an artist? When all the chips are down, that’s all I have in my corner, my mind’s eye.
A vision that is far past 20/20.
When you left I looked for you
in all the faces I saw,
in every crowded street,
in all the places we had been.
The first two therapists I saw were both pastors. While living with my parents, it was hard to even convince my mom to let me see a therapist, so a person of the clergy with a psychology degree was a good compromise for them. Continue reading Sliding Scale