THEY CALLED HIM NERO...HE WAS NEUROTIC
COLORED PENCIL ON MIXED MEDIA
21 INCHES X 36 INCHES
There they are. Looking. Their gazes don't move. I know what they want. Their hate. It's stupid. Quit those thoughts. Quit with those eyes. They like destruction. They want it. It tears. It rips. It breaks through. Their eyes--they're only windows into the minds of the accusers. Waiting for a fall. Waiting for one mistake. It's critical, abusive, laser-like. Don't they understand? Don't they see how they kill with their eyes. They're judging me. They hate me. They're counting every inch. They think it's some kind of joke. They chew and bite into me. Every glance searches for the holes. You just want me to die. It's not good. They don't like it. What do they want from me? What are you waiting for? I die in their sight. Those eyes won't stop firing at me. It's deceit and hatred. They analyze me and analyze me--I can't take it anymore.
It's the tearing apart at the seams. Each second is scrutiny in their sight. Each moment that passes lays him at the hand of his accusers. It won't end and he can't stand it. To him their glances are only judgements and their eyes are only weapons. Everything matters to him, even the slightest movements. He notices everything and it's all because of their hate. They're out for him. They wait for him to trip. He'll die at the hands of those who see him because he's sure they want him dead. But what's really doing him in is himself.
They find. He stops. He hates. He breaks. It's their fault. He can't breathe. Look away. Please. Don't Look At Me.