So much to say, which means so little;
So little to say, what that means much.
These ends we face, often,
Come on fast and taper out just as such.
What that remains: naught but thought.
Loose and multiplicitous as strands,
Hair of the artist's brush,
Colors as the richest palette -
Bold & bright, deep & dark

You were enchanted by the mystery,
You thought it was love and pursued me.
Been excited to discover every part of me.
Touched me like a book, what an interesting story it could be.

I am just ordinary,
people might see me as an old book that could not be understood easily.
I am just nobody,
but you brought me up to life where my existence has been saved from a tragedy.

You have stolen my heart that made my feelings to ramble.
'T was confusing...
and for a moment, I never thought that this will cause me to slumber.
'T was frightening...
A nightmare when we became lovers.

We both made this story, a fairytale.
In the end, it's ourselves that we fail.
Fantasizing each word, trying to mend the aching wounds.
It's not the sword that cuts, but the lies that's ripping us 'till we hear the rhythm of the heart that pounds.

I have never lived my life through your expectations.
Still, we tried to chase everybody at their romantic phase,
while being deceived by our own illusions
As I turned the page, showing fears that I couldn't face.

I laughed when you told me that, alone, I can write it beautifully.
like the songs with a perfect melody.
You think that tearing me apart could turn into a perfect art,
Leaving me afraid and lonely.

I was left there, hanging.
In every page, horrible scenarios are ranging
I was left there hoping,
Just in case there still be a happy ending.

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

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.

~
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
~

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.

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.