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Not all artists are broken.

They paint with colours
drawn from their memories to
empty canvases.

They sculpt figurines
out of their flesh and bones.

They bleed out words
into beautiful prose and poetry.

They create symphonies
with the gentle swish of their wands.

Their steps beat synonymously
with their heart.

Not all artists are broken.
They take all their pain and
turn it to something beautiful.
It’s magic.
And everyone has a little bit of magic in them one way or the other.

- Give
Trying a few new styles, let me know what you think!
Wish we could play around with fonts on here, original poem format looks different.
on her arms
carve a delicate

each pinprick
a sandy glint
in her Martian landscape

canals of meaning fill
until finally the storm has left her streaking
like an iron sunrise

on her limbs
the word-tattoos dry
like calligraphy
on tree trunks

so mysterious

in motion

crimson flower
stamped with the light of dawn
Somewhere inside,
a little girl
has been writing
this entire time.
She is running out of space,
but is too afraid to leave.
I opened my notebook to save her.
I can see her now.
between the lines
my pen is trying
pulling apart.
We are all born soft.
Floating into the hands of others.
Some don’t know how to hold on,
brush our hair back,
make a point to smile,
protect our tears in their palm.  
they poke at us.
Say no
and go
with a firm fist.
Their claws try to embrace us,
but they only scratch the surface.
With so many punctures,
our insides drain.
we become skin and bones,
too hard to reach.
The riverbank in July
Is always a pretty sight.
There's something about
The way the light
Dances with the water.

And there was an electricity
In the air. You could smell
It from two metres away.
Like a virus. I felt a tension
When you smiled.

And then you took your shirt off.
Still don't know why,
Maybe you just wanted
Your skin to feel the symphony
Of the electric sunlight.

That added more complexity
To the smile that crossed your lips.
Fine wine. Onions. Layers.
I had only known you for a week,
Maybe that added to it

When I saw your stomach,
My face dropped, the old
Electric stars in my eyes
Died. Replaced with
Unmissiable scars.

I wanted to say something.
Anything. Even if it was
An "always here"
Borderline cliche,
But at least you would know I cared.

I wanted to scream "**** IT!"
Why are we this way?
How can we allow souls
Like yours to go to that
Place? I felt an ache.

And there is an old
Cliche. That scratching
Scars onto a page
Makes the feeling of
Failure go away.

I finished and said **** it again.
I started at it for a while.
Your stomach filled with scars,
And I almost forgot
That electric smile.
Part of a collection I'm working on with a friend, I think it's going to work alright.
I smile foolishly
There is everything wrong
Going on, in my life now
Yet, I laugh like an idiot
**** care, about it all
I have lived all too carefully
Picking pebbles on the way
I have sinned not too much
Pious is the delirious clay
What else can I say, I do not
Try to defend all that I have
Lived; and I smile coyly
What has anyone begotten
By not living it in other way?

Find yourself, live to seek
Seek and pursue, until clear
It becomes. Until you find out
All that there is to find out !
Or you die trying, with the
Knowledge, of not have gone
Down, without even a stare.
lately my stomach has twisted itself into knots
because of my self deprecating thoughts
like a root forced to grow after rain
my stomach twists in revelation and pain
perhaps to wisdom I am simply giving birth
and if I wipe away the tears I’ll see worth
but for now it’s just twisting and hurts
every time I think “I may never be loved.”
AditiKo 2d
Kept working
Sweating and renewing
And carefully weaving
My thoughts through the world
And I realise
That I didn't like it.

Venting and pounding
Failed art
Broken heart
All cleared away

And that's some space
For another tone, a face
Start afresh the next day.
There are only so many tries before you make it. Do the math people
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