Blank pages
Scattered brain
Even greater scattered words
Slurry falls out of my skull, into my mouth
Like tumbled rocks
Schrödinger’s paragraphs
Both written and not
Until I decide to sit down
Pen in hand
Pencil in hand
Paper staring
Blankly
Eyes staring
Blankly
Scattered brain
Even greater scattered words
And thoughts

She looks at the canvas
Blank, taught, pristine
Background decisions
All in the mood, how does she feel?

Oil, water, spray, or acrylic
So many choices, to let her soul lay bare
Subjects to paint, what will it be
Endless options, What does she see?

In her paintings, a dragon often revealed
Sometimes, fragile
Sometimes, fierce
A self-portrait of sorts, How is she revealed?

This is how I saw her, how I fell in love.
Tiny brushstrokes, her heart for those to see
But only to those who knew how to look.
Beyond the brushstrokes, beyond her veil.

But I lay distraught, this is not an easy love
Like our mutual favorite, I stare into the Starry Night
Sometimes I feel the despair, the doubt, and I am unsure
Hoping I fair better than the ear in hand

Her brushstrokes are upon me, like paintings in her hall
Hidden hearts, separate and removed
She paints me, a poet with her hand
I accept her, and her brushstrokes upon my heart

First stanza:
Where do I find the words to begin this piece?
Should I go for one or two stanzas—maybe even longer. tell me what will you like more?
What kind of meter or rhyme scheme would make you hear the humble knocks of my knuckles to your door?

Second stanza:
And what if I do it all wrong—
If I made it rhyme when you wanted a free verse?
If you could not hear the rhythm I aspired to contrive?
If you could not picture the imagery I had drawn?
If I wrote five stanzas when you wanted four—
What if from the moment your eyes landed on the first line, your face would tell me that you have heard me knocking but you will not let me in?

Third stanza:
Still, my fingers are wrapped around the body of this pen,
desiring to make its first stroke.
Held back however, by the thoughts of your words that has always resonated with my soul—
the very reason of why I am facing this difficult task in the first place.
Ambitious, I am very ambitious.
How dare I come up with this silly idea?
What literariness do I have that does not pale in comparison with yours?

How do I write a poem for a poet, when this is the first time I have tried, and all I have is a heart that made me believe it was possible?

Feed your starving soul,
Let inspiration flow.
Thus you slip away;
Don't wait another day!

Capture every glance.
Still the water's dance.
Freeze the hands of time;
Your Spirit needs to shine!

Look now through the glass.
Don't let the moment pass.
Starving soul, feast on,
Before your spark is gone!

©KSS 11/2014

no, i was not a poet then
because i glazed upon my skin
and saw it as paper i could easily cut.

no, i was also not an artist then
because i painted over my scars,
hoping to become a work of art.

yet, i bear the title of a poet
and wear the badge of an artist,
for indeed, i am a poet and an artist,
but far from the spectrum that society
has manipulated and stapled into your head.

therefore, i'm only human-
one that has always been a work of art,
and a luscious garden of poetry at heart.
i am simply a nuclear fusion
of calmness and chaos,
with a spark of uniqueness.

@boonthemoonluv

He sat on the cold, wooden floor,
His only source of light a dim lamp outside
He was shivering from the cold but that didn't matter
As long as his words were given life

The quiet sound of the pen hitting the paper
The notebook being the only thing he owned
Yet so treasured
A portal to the past

Some pages were torn
Seen as useless
But so truly beautiful
As they gave character to the brown notebook filled with nonsense

Exhausted with his work
He fell asleep in the middle of a word
The pen slowly tracing a line down the page
Only for it to be found, another reason to shame the boy
For that he is different

If I stay a nervous bud
my full bloom will not encroach upon the grandeur of another
& I will invite no retribution
Though the artist in me knows
that a whole field in bloom
Pollinates the world.
Bloom with the artists.

If I stay silent
my words cannot be smithed into a weapon of censure,
and be used to cut me into smaller pieces.
Though the poet takes my words
& alchemises them
into an elixir for healing.
Speak with the poets.

If I smother my fire
I inspire no ire from neighbouring Suns
for whom my shine is a punishable theft of thunder.
Though a sister moon mirrors my light and illuminates the next.
Shine regardless.

If I stay in my armour
my vulnerability cannot become the missile launched at me
by the traitor who begged for my truth
Though an ally reveres my courage
and meets it with the honour of their own open heart.
Open, even though.

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world is mesmerized by your majestic show
Countless watched as you conquered those conflicts
All they saw was the greatness as you grow.

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world is fooled by your flamboyant show
Beneath the surface, scarred and beaten
Unaware of the bloodshed braved in the low

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world should not be of worry to whatever you show
Your hidden battles, a courage untold
May we raise a glass to the healing you bestow

She was an artist
but not how
most people
think of artists.
She wasn’t a painter,
nor a sculptor.
Not technically

Her instrument was her paintbrush,
her breath the paint.
The rhythms were her design,
the notes her colors,
the world her canvas.

The paper was her pottery wheel,
the words her clay.
Stanzas were her shape,
punctuation her indentations
and publishing her kiln.

she painted with music,
and sculpted with poetry
she made sound come to life,
made poems sing

Most say she’s only a musician
and a writer.
Some will at least give her poet.
but I’d argue
She’s an artist