Dreams of Sepia
Dreams of Sepia
Aug 10      Aug 10

It's been a long time
but the ink scrawls & lines all fall into place

an expressionist
glimpse into urban dreams

somewhere in the past
a typewriter sounds

someone is writing
a masterpiece

which will never
be published

in a land
soon to be bombs & flame

meanwhile my lines
make out the city of my dreams

I drew for the first time in a year today & what came out was a picture that reminded me of Berlin, a city I love.
Oct 1

The graphite stained my fingertips
As I smudged a shadow trail of hair;
Or shaded the outer side of lips
Chapped, pale, and barely there.
When to laconism I retreat,
I breathe with the night sky
Of darkest blue and star-lit.
The pen shall bleed, smile and sigh.
Until light fetches the dark
And my consciousness slip,
With the pen I will bleed.

Back when my sketchpad was a solid nocturnal companion... And now, I need to buy another one.
#drawing   #night   #insomnia   #sketch  

The truth is, I’m not really sure who I am.  She told us to draw ourselves and then to draw our souls; so I drew my face scratched and uneven, just as I’ve always seen it, and frowned at the result both in the mirror and on the paper.  The only soul I’ve ever really known was the one that shone through the strokes of the keys I punched, the scrawling of ink on paper in mismatched arrays of awkward thoughts, disorientated and unorganized, shaded different spews of emotion and rearranged through the lens of ever last viewer’s eye.  Even so, this soul that is composed of words that defined me painted a picture vivid in its contrast, though blurry from both afar and close enough to squint, no details able to be made out.  These words that have wrapped around my soul rubbed raw from the time my skin first flinched at the cool March air cannot be deciphered by their author, though I know somehow that their letters flowing into one another say more than any curve of my face ever could.  These words are black and white, two extremes crafted in the pallet of the Universe’s toolshed, and perhaps that’s exactly what I am.  Black or white.  I’m dark and lost and scrounging for some rusting wall or tree branch to cling to as to ensure the shimmering waves, onyx and charcoal in their nature with the flow of blood in its spine, do not flood into my mouth at a rate in which is too quick to balance myself upon them, or, I’m white, drifting snow from a cloud scraping the vast expanse of brilliant blue gazing as a sky above all the world, pure, innocent, unscathed with the potential for creation in vibrancies yet unknown, or to be ripped to bits, scattered amongst piles of cream and autumn leaves drained of their color beneath months of shivering frost.  And so, perhaps any physical representation of my being would be all wrong, because that’s not what I am.  Myself, my soul, it resides in the murky depths of heights I’ve yet to discover, tethered endlessly and uncertain among the caverns of my inners, pink and mushy, stirred and bloody, untouched from the harsh light of a world encased in brevity.

#poem   #drawing  

To expel the outlines piled in my mind on paper,
With a light pencil in one hand,
And slice of rubber in the other,
I parent an impression of hope.

Therein lies the potential and the excitement;
A basic figure given the foundation of grandeur,
Amplifying in complexity before me,
With every scratch of graphite.

As it evolves, a heaviness sets in.
And I pause,
And I stop...

I've given something beautiful a half life, again,
As if it was birthed human,
With no flesh to cover its nerves,
And no breath to cry out its agony.

It remains still in my lap,
Eyes blank as ever staring, maybe, at me .
Out of humility, I tack it up on the wall,
A space shared by its many siblings.

I retreat shamefully with the promise to complete them,
Fumbling with the reality of what I do;
Playing God, I shape the husk of a soul,
And drop it when it's still brittle.

#regret   #drawing   #shame   #person   #picture   #lines   #unfinished   #pencil   #many   #outline  
People call a 'Drawing'
insane hatter
insane hatter
Nov 20, 2014

The way the ink or led stains the paper
With the hand motion you use to create this thing
People call a 'Drawing'
There beautiful
Whoever created them
I am grateful for your discovery

Ashley Haack
Ashley Haack
Dec 8, 2014

I've doodled and drawn till my skin's
Smudged grey from graphite,
I've erased and erased till shavings
Covered my floor like a rug,
I've drawn and re-drawn till I think
maybe... maybe it's good enough,
Then I change it some more,
Shade a part again,
Stain my skin some more,
Re-trace lines again...
And I think this time it's just about right,
Not quite, but it's alright,
So I pick up my pencil and
Sign it

drawing is what i do

drawing is what i do
its what i love
i can't go a day without it

many lines and curves
to make a piece of art

but here's the twist

i only use one color
on the piece of art
God given to me

its silver and shiny
sharp at the edges

the result
dark red coming from the canvas

Drawing something dangerously beautiful
Zara Noury

I thought I forgot you
I thought I long had you buried
Deep in my memory.
I thought you could no longer haunt me
Like you used to do so often.
I thought I got over you
Until your eyes met mine today,
Once or twice at most and that was about it.

I couldn't look at you,
I couldn't look at you without bursting into tears,
So I burst into laughter instead.
And I suppose that you saw through my fake act.

You were there in your corner,
There in your pedestal,
There in your elegance
Drawing something dangerously beautiful
And you were beautifully dangerous.
And I,
I could only watch you from a distance
And learn to admire you
Without touching you,
Without kissing you,
Or fucking you.

We exchanged a conversation
About random things
You know, like
How it took me about an hour
To take a proper picture of the cat you gave me,
How it tragically died,
How I didn't cry when it died...
But I actually did cry when it died...

You looked all right, seriously.
There in your peaceful world
That I no longer was part of.
There in your artistic mind,
There in your capacity to forget,
There in your tendency to break promises,
There in the awful effect you always have on me.

So you said goodbye
Because you had something to go back to.
I said goodbye
Even though I had nothing to go back to.

We parted ways once again,
Me with your drawing pencil in my bag
And you, you my dear, with a piece of me
Inside your pocket.

I remember you once said forever, but you only lied.
I went home,
I went home and cried.


#home   #cry   #drawing   #art   #mind   #peaceful   #promise   #pencil   #pedestal   #pocket  
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment