Aubree's Artworks

little 3-hr project - to do an editorial illustration that goes with an article we read about sleep.

little 3-hr project - to do an editorial illustration that goes with an article we read about sleep.

Quick matchbox design for Illustration.

Whatever I still like it.

Quick matchbox design for Illustration.

Whatever I still like it.


I hope you find it nice sir, you have the title
of one who strolls along my dreaming
from time to time, though my mind
barely memorized your mystics
and that obscure, caffeinated temperament
sad heart, blind life.
I’ve always felt our souls the same
mine light, yours dark but not to blame
for cutting between the threads we shared
two years, yes, I owe you them
and I’ve always cared.

I hope perhaps I’ll find you when I wed
hug my old friend, save the last thread

I’d tell you my ribs were crushed down
from loving your sad heart
I thought love was supposed to drive out fear
but it drove me into ditches and nervousness and I’m so,
so sorry
to think this excuse for a poem will suffice.

I miss our talks, but I know they weren’t nice.


There are moments that act like poetry, whose providence first captures me unaware, then at sight of its face, sinking my anchor deep enough to keep me stuck in all of the meaning and beauty, just for a time, until my sails beg to turn their faces. It requires no witnesses but my subconscious, shyly nudging me to memorize the moment, like with tears as my brother departs for another hard month, or as my mother offers to hear my heart. As I let my eyes abstract the candlelight when I am deep in prayer. As I feel companionless and without virtue. As I lose a friend. But it also nudges me with joy, at times springing out of nothing but small epiphanies, like kisses from God, patiently revealing my story. Those days I go without laughing uphold even more the moments I nearly suffocate myself with it. Held even higher: the moment I realize someone speaks not to my face, but to my soul. Finally, there are moments that are unremarkable, lost to my page-turner days and busy feet, yet I become aware of its strange value. Walking that block to the bus stop for millionth time. Laying wide-eyed at night, guessing how many layers of paint stick to the walls of this old apartment. Noticing beauty in someone I never thought much of. Noticing the moon in the midst of everything. That is probably my favorite.

Finally finished with my Croquet Ball poster.  Lots of color changes…hopefully they work okay!  Gouache and colored pencil.

Okay, at some point I’ll stop bothering you all with my artsy things. This just happened to be a project-heavy week. I also updated my bloggy. This is a short comic I made for Sequential Art class. Based loosely off of celtic folklore, the “Barrow Lover” — I wanted to make this feel like a grimm tale. This project killed me. However, I would like to re-do it sometime and make it really refined and have the characters look more consistent.

My little book of patience. I could make journals all day every day.

Lyrics: Nickname

will you listen
in place of these city sirens
in place of this bed

will you stay
and call me your home always
and nickname me friend


you’re out of my hands
just lay there like soil in sand
while I am a spring


it’s the place between knocking down your door
and playing that waiting game
and If you love me I’m not sure
should I white out all the silly plans
I have made
I have made

the winter won’t ease
til you say the word, oh please
don’t be too long

PS: If yall are interested in my amateur recordings, check out

A preview of my graphic novel for Sequential Art class. These are basically drafts for me to get a feel for what the book will look like.

Thoughts on a cold, cold Monday

There is one thing that I as a storyteller and storylover suffer, and that is the boundlessness of the space in which my thoughts are occupied, never at rest.  I am always assessing the true world along with trillions of other worlds inside of me.  I see.  Yet it’s sometimes a hinderance to the realness of living; I’ve dreamt of everything, so the realness alongside becomes awkward, repetitive, frightening.  I’m never quite saying what I want to say, never as fearless as I am in my mind.  There are times when I’m angry at the world’s over-saturated media for giving me so many ideas.  I wish I could start over, innocent of preconception, with my future being some curious void where anything could come to be.  It’s too late for that.  However, storytellers and storylovers, perhaps just as we forget our lives in order to immerse ourselves in a book, we must sometimes forget stories to be present in our lives.  We don’t dare become our own enemies as consequence of the strength of our minds.          

A Biography

this sacred skin lets hold creative breath, and this soul’s stature’s royal

this ancient youth both blessed and marred by storytellers toil

stands cocked-head worried and waits to be worth as stars

always sews then kills the tapestries that show us who we are

tilts flames, catches candlelight and fireflies for want of one God

this ransomed mind deadly hides a deathless elven queen to laud

will you dig arrowheads from her heart and seek her steadily, still

though virally aware she drinks up worlds like oceans spill

Christmas gift for my parents.  Colored Pencil.