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do you not have any thoughts or ideas?
besides how to stop someone else
besides the constant gripes and *******
after all, i just met you playing billiards
you asked me how i made the cue ball do all that crazy stuff
that's what started this conversation
and now you say you're done conversatin'
it's conversing...ah...nevermind
sorry that i didn't want to discuss politics
or ****
or jesus
or your neighbor's wife
or ford trucks
or hunting
it's not that i think i am better than you
it's just that i have a different outlook now
think new, and discuss new things
not material
new things

after all, i just met you playing billiards
you asked me how i made the cue ball do all that crazy stuff
it's called english
how i made the cue ball do all that crazy stuff
it's called english...ah...nevermind
Luna 3d
she's exalted by those who seek validation
lost in a world in fear of transformations
enduring a cycle of lust in translation
she needs a deeper tonic for stimulation
share the love // posting future content on IG@FROMME.TOWHOEVER
would appreciate the support, hope everyone has a blessed day
peace, love, & light
8
Four artists and a preacher on mountain top
Reign over their emotions
And spinning hands
Clinging to a mothers mouth
Modelled through souls connected

With these tendrils
An eye to their future
Reachs out into a valley of dreams
The poetic centre sweeps hearts on fire
The sunset smiles over jubulation

The Junipers final days
Are sworn to the eye watching over the
The depth of space
The ashes of space are drawn into its center
A greater peace now invaded the hum.
based on an art installation in Riba Roja, catalonia. The four artists unveiled the piece yesterday accompanied by poetry spoken by the artists and a art teacher who was set on distant rock formation. All overlooking a small valley of olive trees as the sunsets over a mountain range and the river Ebre. This poem was my immediate response and reply to the artists and their installation.
I was like that a while ago
Now I’m on a field reading a book
It’s a book of poems by Sylvia Plath
And the world looks terribly sad
On the horizon but here the grass is green.

Your face looks blue in this light
Words softly said… you’re wonderfully lyrical
When you’re sad. What a terrible thing to say
Suddenly exclaimed, a laugh, swift movement
And drag of a cigarette. You stare at me

And say: that’ll **** you you know
But you look so good when you do it
So does it matter really and I look at you
And laugh and feel alive for the first time
In years and years and whispering you say

Remember the time we had met
And you showed me the way you painted
So dreamlike, so expressionistic.
I stared into the canvas and was ******
Into your mind, you put me into a trance

As potent as the nicotine rush of a cigarette
Take a draw and I watch the smoke
Rise into the air and far away…
How much of this city’s air is tobacco
A quick query a weak laugh.

Golden hour and the green hills
Turn into sand dunes collapsing
In on themselves, things come and go
In that way, time passes in a blink of an eye
And suddenly there is a void.

Nothing remains unless you put it on a canvas.
My body tears itself apart every seven years
And one day I will stop with the blink of an eye
And I never would’ve been here. They’ll stay.
The sands of time may drag me away

The universe through my eyes
May implode and blink out
But regardless of what happens to me
They’ll stay. They’ll always stay.
Your eyes are drawn to a canvas

On which was painted dreams
A splash of red, figure shining gold
With grey above it being the smoke
From a half used cigarette.
Staring at it hours after it’s conception

You tell me it’s the best work
You’ve seen in a long time
And even though I can’t take compliments
I turn to you and say, name it for me.
You call it expression of sunlight.
The artist and the muse.
Behold the smooth transition of brushstrokes and bristles to the field of marigolds.
The sweet friction brought by divine hands, is the depth you were searching for.

And as the storm rolls in, high on the technicolor clouds, you take a moment to catch your breathe.
Next thing you know the rainbow wildfire blooms from the painted raindrops, setting the flowers ablaze.

It is a world created of mind made matter, and if you cannot see the parallels, then you lack the imagination!

Any fiction can carve its way into reality, that is the truth of all worlds.

That is the key, forge your ambitions and blow the doors wide open.
XPY Sep 11
Tattoos are scars
we choose to keep--
words we want to carry,
memories we fear losing;
ink and needle are
the self-inflicted stinging:
the pain we choose to feel.
art on our bodies--
out of our minds--
something
real.
I have my father's name tattooed on my wrist not because I forgive him, but because I have forgiven myself and I choose to carry that with me.
Sweet Rain Sep 10
Stories swirl free
Memory fantasy dream
Constellating stars
Blurring transposing like art
Lonely snowflakes weep,
Wishes for gifts meant to keep
It's about things held deep inside swirling, shifting, dissolving, and then starting to clarify. I'm hoping the meter helps illustrate that?
My Dear Poet Aug 31
My colourful mind
melts upon your skin
drips from your lips
slips from your hips
you’re looking like
rainbows in raindrops
tints trapped in teardrops
blobs of purple slop stain
violent splats of violet paint
on the palette of my brain
stay in the line of my mind
eyelashes for brushes
red roses and rosy rashes
fireworks and knee jerks
yellow and low blows
all these and much more
are greener than folklore
seasides and sea-saw
whys your eyes so blue for?
go ahead and kiss me
taste the colours you adore
Ms Ann Thrope Aug 28
Have you ever seen the way
A bushfire sets beautifully ablaze
The deepest, darkest forest trees
A melting-orange intensity
It brings about an ash of gold
Like the smothering dust of charcoal
The wildest destruction ever to see
In the eyes of a son who came from me
Written 2021
Dedicated to Knox James Alexander
Bugi Aug 25
Something that I’m passionate about is art. Whenever I’m stuck on a feeling, a thought, a memory, or even a conversation that makes me upset, I draw. I let my feelings flow through my pen or brush. It airs out all the gunk inside myself. Sometimes its just intense scribbles that tear up the page, or a bright painting, or maybe a crying clown. Its how I express myself. Its how I speak my truth. Its just how I relax, it’s calming, comforting, safe.
This is a poem I wrote in English class and thought it was good enough to post here.
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