Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I wanna eat your *****
I wanna die tonight
I wanna get wasted
I wanna start a fight
I wanna go to jail
I wanna get paid
I wanna **** your mom
I want retards to get laid
**** politics
**** words
I want to *******
To pictures of worms
I want to see Diddy get ******
I wanna see Sara Palin ****
I wanna light a smoke with Obama
I want a **** that’s ******* huge
I wanna do drugs
I wanna go insane
I wanna chill with Charlie sheen
And do a bunch of *******
I wanna streak in Area 51
So aliens can grow my ****
I wanna spit off the Eiffel Tower
Drink until I’m ******* sick
But all I’ll ever do
Is write this stupid poem
Maybe if I drink enough
I’ll die on the way home
God might love you!
Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.
the art of conversation is lost on me...
CAROUSEL
In my Ferris wheel, spinning, turning,
in life's madness,
in art.
The art of drawing out days,
the art of surviving ourselves.
Stories,
between silver and gold, by day and by night.
Turning through life,
observing.
Looking without seeing, at times.
Unraveling tangled chains,
Between lines and curves,
creating,
those days,
passionate,
navigating,
through the air,
drowned,
in the sea,
blood,
rivers,
giving,
that art,
from here,
from there.
Art,
my art,
your art,
all,
or
nothing,
to flow.
In everything,
your art,
reflections,
of life,
recreating.
In my Ferris wheel,
sometimes I fall,
dizzy,
giving,
everything,
I believe,
divine,
human,
reflections,
creation.
Without a net,
loose,
my art.
That thing,
so mine,
without success,
without fear
to be brilliant,
to be nothing,
it all matters not,
to create for creation's sake.
I drown,
each day,
I breathe,
from worse,
to worse,
despite,
I cast art,
those lines,
that I spit.
With blood,
sometimes water,
salt from my sea.
For no one,
for me,
I play,
I spin,
I turn,
within me,
dizzy,
on my carousel,
that which inspires,
that which kills me.
Giving everything,
on the edge,
of everything,
or almost,
art,
mine,
endless.
unreal,
or real,
unlimited.
Breathless,
pure image,
imagination,
overflowing,
drowned,
in Art.
it kills me,
not to give
everything,
endlessly.
Carousel,
circular,
of light,
within me,
unique,
endless,
despite,
my end.
Creating
life in you,
immaterial,
poisoning,
with art your life.
Create your dreaming,
in your Ferris wheel.
carousel,
of your life

CARRUSEL
En mi noria, girando, dando vueltas,

en la locura de la vida,

en el arte.

Arte de ir tirando días,

arte de sobrevivir a nosotros mismos.

Historias,

entre la plata y el oro, de día y de noche.

Dando vueltas por la vida,

observando.

Mirando sin ver a veces.

Deshaciendo los ovillos de las cadenas,

Entre líneas y curvas,

creando,

esos días,

apasionados,

navegando,

por el aire,

ahogados,

en la mar,

sangre,

ríos,

dando,

ese arte,

de aquí,

de allá.

Arte,

mi arte,

tu arte,

todo,

o

nada,

fluir.

En todo,

tu arte,

reflejos,

de la vida,

recreando.

En mi noria,

a veces caigo,

mareado,

dando,

todo,

Creo,

divino,

humano,

reflejos,

creación.

Sin red,

suelto,

mi arte.

Esa cosa,

tan mía,

sin éxito,

sin miedo

a ser genial,

a no ser nada,

da igual todo,

crear por crear.

Me ahogo,

cada día,

respiro,

de peor,

en peor,

a pesar,

tiro arte,

esas líneas,

que escupo.

Con sangre,

a veces agua,

sal de mi mar.

Para nadie,

para mí,

juego,

giro,

vueltas,

en mí,

mareado,

en mi carrusel,

ese que inspira,

ese que me mata.

Dando todo,

en el borde,

de todo,

o casi,

arte,

mío,

sin fin.

irreal,

o real,

ilimitado

Sin aliento,

pura imagen,

imaginación,

desbordante,

ahogado,

en Arte

me mata,

no dar

todo,

sin fin.

Carrusel,

circular,

de luz,

en mí,

único,

sin fin,

a pesar,

de mi fin.

Creando

vida en ti,

inmaterial,

envenenando,

con arte tu vida.

Crea tu soñar,

en tu noria.

carrusel,

de tu vida.
dee 3d
You are indeed art.
Something I can not add on to
due to you already wielding the energy
that is so deathly breathtaking.
My eyes stretch to see as far as your soul.
I’ll never get close enough to touch the colors that perfectly line into your being.
It’s more than awareness of your existence.
nothing is perfect
but what soothed me was your completeness.
You are whole.
He is art.
The only thing to depict you, for art is the only thing I can love from a distance and now so are you.
You are indeed art.
From possession to perception.
Commitment to acceptance.
Grasping to gazing.
Wholeness. Admiration. Art.
goodbye
Cné 3d
Blessed hands that held the brush so fine,
Spoke of stories yet untold in line.
Fingers that danced with vibrant hue,
Whispered secrets, as the canvas grew.

With every stroke, a tale unfolded,
Of passion, fire, and emotions bold.
The hands that painted, spoke of love,
As colors merged, sent from above.

In gentle touch, they shared a sigh,
As petals bloomed, and sunsets lit the sky.
With firm grasp, they told of might,
As mountains rose, and night descended bright.

The artist's hands, a language true,
Spoke of dreams, and all they'd do.
If you let them, they'd tell their tale,
Of beauty born, and emotions unveiled.

Their whispers echoed, as the art took shape,
A symphony of color, a heartfelt escape.
The hands that painted, spoke of soul,
A language universal, making us whole.
I love to paint because I lose myself to it. I surrender all thoughts and just create. When I finish I step back and look at what I created.
alex 6d
Frozen beauty
breathtakingly
preserved in his
running watercolour,
rough charcoal,
faded photograph film,
A beauty forevermore-
stilled yet alive.
Have you ever seen a pair of Nine West Folowe Pumps in Red Blooms Floral - or ever held a feathery pair? They offer the pure pleasure of perfection.

You can see them popping up lately, in streetwear silhouette, matched with Dolce & Gabbana’s floral-print leggings, making a duet of blooms—petal upon petal, like a garden in motion, or paired with the new, high-waisted barrel leg jeans, lending a flash of elegance, a bright flourish against dull denim.

They’re visions, wrought as if by the hand of Michelangelo, who once from marble freed David’s pose, or da Vinci, whose brush summoned the Mona Lisa’s secret smile.

In form, they’re d’Orsay cut, sporting curves as deliberate as the Sistine vaults arch. The stiletto heels rise with the ambition of a cathedral’s spire - neither too proud nor too meek, but balanced, like the symmetry of a butterfly’s painted wings.

Upon their surface, blood red blooms unfurl - petals as vivid as spring’s first flush - each blossom a testament to an artist’s hand, in riots of color and romance that dance with the same spirit as a flowerbed at dawn.

No flaws mar their making: the stitchings are true, the fits precise—as if tailored by the muses themselves. Each pair offers its own unique foliations, bespeaking the freedom of a craftsman’s careful art.

Lastly, of course, they’re marvels of harmonious function, lightly cradling and lifting each step - comfort and glamour aren’t adversaries here, but partners in making each step a sonnet and each stride an artist's brushstroke.

Now, maybe you aren’t into fashion - perhaps you’re a male - oh, poor you, I’m sorry, but maybe, just maybe, in times of chaos, you long for the pleasure of inexpensive perfection.
.
.
Songs for this:
Glamour Girl by Louie Austen
This is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 06/26/25:
Sumptuous = something luxurious, magnificent and probably very expensive.
AC Jun 25
art is an interchangeable form.
what is poetry can be prose can be music can be art can be TV can be movies can be video games can be visual novels can be webcomics can be dance can be movement can be aesthetics can be a flash of inspiration hidden behind a street corner.

art is a connective process.
you forge new threads between yourself, others, and the world around you.
you realize the universe is so much bigger than yourself. and yet, you discover just how you can be a part of it, just how you can fit in.

through art we are not human, yet art is the most human form of being there is.
art motivates us not just to live, but to thrive. it shows us the evidence of why we should all still be alive.

and to appreciate art, is no less than to make it.
to create, is no lesser or greater than to be.

go feel art.
go make art.

go be art.
Mouthwashing (the 2024 hit indie horror game) has absolutely wrecked my life with how good (and bad) it was...but hey, at least I've got some new thoughts on what true art is.
On a velvet night,
so silent and heavy
that the breath of life itself seemed an intrusion,
Vincent smiled and bid the world goodbye,
he closed his eyes
and left to join the landscape of his paintings
Let me love you
in all the ways I know,
in all the ways I want.

Let me surprise you
beyond all the conventions
of how people love,
beyond the borrowed stories
told for centuries,
of others loving others
by someone else’s rules.

Let me be myself
in love
for you.

I promise it will be
special,
unique,
unknown,
a mosaic of new facets,
still undiscovered.

For love is art
never poor in method,
never demanding
what to do,
how to be.

And since love is art,
let me be the artist
to paint love
in every color
that ever existed
on earth,
in the heavens,
in my heart,
and your thoughts.
Bring me the hues of your secret thoughts,
and I shall paint a masterpiece called love.
Next page