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The vibrant colors
move together like a dance.
They are in rhythm moving
and flowing together.
Creating artful delight.
I pour and blend
choosing colors so alive.
It's so satisfying seeing the colors create such beauty
some abstract some wild
let the paints dance on canvas
Let them become the colors
they design &
are meant to be.
Vibrant and Colorful.
© Jennifer Lynn DeLong
4/27/24
Aynjul 4d
why not let out the ideas in your head before you die?
so it can live on
and you can go peacefully.
but what is this pool of ideas in my head?
What if I drain it out?
What if I let it out So Much that I have nothing left of me...
?!
maybe that's the point.
there won't BE nothing left of you.

So, You let it out Until you die.
I should let out what's in my head before I go
because when I die I'll just take that with me and no one will see. (not that anyone seeing matters)
I'll just end up taking my ideas with me when I die.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 17
~
Cotton duck canvas
on careful days
in a closed room,
intersecting tension,
energy and interest
for strangers to interpret

Three bashful belles
and lovers of art
undressed as a figure study,
cloistered together
in a line of beauty
for moral support

Their congregation assembled
in glorification of
angelic landscapes,
tempered by the mysteries
within convexity's arboretum

In unequivocal parts and gradation,
where good posture
and graceful presentation
count in equal measure,
to create Hogarth's
line continuous
--the Analysis of Beauty,
bended at the waist
to spread light through the canopy

During such exhibition
the belles whisper
under the rose,
of war and shopping lists,
they seem to avert eye contact,
gazes fixed to
the eternal sphere
ticking on the far wall,
never directly into the eyes
of those who come to
paint their *******
with sandalwood

~
Truly, I felt drawn to you like a pencil,
Scribbling down my feelings.
Like the strokes of an artist's hand
Bringing a blank canvas to life.

Some days, I find myself carelessly putting
Your smile on display in my day's portrait.  
It's as if I am painting a personal masterpiece,
Where each brushstroke represents a memory,
We've now created together.

But eventually, the fading light of the day
Brings forth words left unsaid,
Casting a shadow on the beauty we,
Once shared.
el Mar 20
The art is hiding behind one pretence or another, for surely it cannot be both of these? Hidden things cannot stay hidden, for found is where beauty is. Hate. The incessant whining of an ache behind my ear, and it is like the wind whistling between glass at an ungodly hour. Like smoke between teeth. The world does not obey your thoughts, does not listen to my wishes. So tell me your name, at least one time, tell me your name so that I may place it in my mind in a place where it can live and dance and rot and forever remain, and let me say, I love you.  Love doesn't exist. It is the chemicals that are held in the heavy weight of your tears.
I’m a broken poet
Who longs to write
About sadness
love
heartbreak
Although, I haven’t experienced either

I’m a broken poet
For, I have so much
Left to say
Yet, I search for words
Every single day

I’m a broken poet
For, my words
Do not spill
On these empty sheets

I’m a broken poet
For, the words
That I write
Do not reach
People’s hearts
They get lost
In the depths
Of this crowded world

I’m a broken poet
For, my words
Do not carry the pain
And suffering that
Other’s have felt

I’m a broken poet
For my words
Do not feel
Like a warm hug
From your favorite person
On a cold day

I’m a broken poet
For my words cannot console
A broken soul
To not give up
And sail through life

I’m a broken poet or
I’m not;
Maybe,
I’m just a broken person
With words left to say
But no one to hear them
-RB©
Ken Pepiton Mar 6
This is Ken Pepiton, as he sat in the sun,
thinking of Van Gogh's ghucking sunhat
self portrait,

and laughing at having dropped my name,
where he left his hat.
caught a thought. Rough edged, too true, madness patterning
HIM
It has been more than a year
I have written nothing
writer’s block
Or out of words
maybe a heavy heart
I don’t know what it is

I think of words
I want to write
but it gets all jumbled up
in my head
I put down these words
but all I am left with
is unfinished poetry

Every-time I think of something
it all comes back to you
nothing makes sense
when I read it out loud
it’s apt tho isn’t it?

Nothing made sense
between us too
friends to strangers
without being together

I want my poetry to be
about you
but what should I say?

How your smile
lit up my gloomy days?
Or
how your stories
made me wish I had
lived ‘em with you?
Or
how your dorky laugh
made my heart skip a
beat every single time?

In my mind,
I could go on and on
but penning it down
was the hardest

And every time
I reminisce these memories
I feel this void in
my heart
it feels like
a piece of me
is gone

There is an empty hollow
and the only way I know
to fill it
is by sipping on
your favourite poison

Cause only for
a couple of hours
the smell lingers
on my breath
making me feel
your presence again
bringing me out of the
nothingness I'm
trapped in

This poem
doesn't make sense,
does it?
it doesn't have to
because
nothing made sense
about him too
This poem isn't supposed to make sense.
based on personal experience,
something I needed to get off my chest.
Oh Vincent
whatever did you do
ripening fields of summer corn
and sunflowers of a brilliant hue
a shade no other eyes could see
except for God and you
Trying ekphrastic poetry
selina Feb 28
i wince because you wanted me
to love you tenderly and tirelessly,
but tragically for you, all you ever did

was waste my precious time. so, sure,
you can twist my words, do it for
your own self-assurance, but i will

note yours down accurately, for my
own sanity and art; i can handle being
publicly contempted, but we both know,

deep down, you are still attempting
to be something you are so clearly not
live love diss poems
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