You are an artist
You do not move a brush to a canvas
You do not find the beat or breath of the music to sway to
You do not strum the strings of the exhaling instrument
You do not lift the roof with your voice as you sing
You do not catch an audiences applaud with your acts and rolls
You do not build beauty with your hands to shape something magnificent

You are an artist
You paint me as a dream even as I see my flaws beneath the oil paint
You sway me and you lead me as we dance to the melody of falling in love
You play my heart string for string and I might have thought you've been playing all your life
You sing me the aubade of memory and I fall again and again
You play the role of not a prince but a knight in my dream as we fight the ongoing battle of life back to back
You have used your hands to caress what you call God's Work Of Art and called me breathtaking by every shape and curve, so you whisper sweet sweet things to me.

You are an artist to my heart
I remembered
I remember
remember those days
days of bright sun
and the days that
were as if in an oven

when the blood ran down my cheeks
when the blood came from my eyes
when the hands were daggers
and every day was soaked
revenge and anger
taken from a huge artistic talent

I remembered
I remember those doors
those beds of salami and hay
I remember those needles and those spiders
those terrible guys
who cut off my head
and then threw me into the water
eternally dying and eternally drowning

I remember
I remember

Ron Gavalik Jul 3
Nothing feels so empty as easy satisfaction
that requires little effort or sacrifice.
As filthy Johns in search of whores,
we salivate over and consume
the blood and the passion
of the artists who offer their beauty
in the hopes of small rewards.
In a gluttonous feast, we take
what we want, and without
offering one cup of coffee
or even a slice of bread.

-Ron Gavalik
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someday i wish to be the poem
instead of the one writing the artful lines
i want to see myself
through someone else's eyes
i want to turn my heart off
to put my feelings on pause for awhile
to have someone else write about my smile
i want to be numb, for just a day or two
to take a walk in somebody else's shoes
i long to be the creation
the words from someone else's pen
K N Brown Jul 2
I paint with vibrant hues

in hopes the immense colors

will stain my hands

and seep into my soul


the tints always dull into shades

and I reverse to the nothingness
K N Brown Jul 2
she made art

to unscramble

the tangled lines of madness

that screamed in her head

and to transfer the insanity

onto a canvas

that wore it better
чσur knσwíng smílє ís pαíntєd αcrσss thє hσrízσn ín α dєєp, rєαssuríng вluє
чσu gívє thє wσrld íts cσlσr
thє wσrld ís pαíntєd вч чσu

чσur єчєs αrє thє dαrk chєstnut sσíl σn thє grσund
thє swєєt вrєαd fσr thє trєєs ín thє grσvєs αll αrσund

чσur gєntlє hαnds αrє thє вєrríєs αnd thє rαrє, єхquísítє wínєs
thє strσng curvєs ín чσur αrms αrє thє єvєrgrєєn pínєs
fírm αnd grαnd, thєч αrє thє hílls αnd mσuntαíns
thє lαughtєr frσm чσur mσuth ís thє whítє flσwíng fσuntαíns

єvєrч cσlσr wíthín чσu ís αrt
вut thє mσst ímpσrtαnt huє ís thє cσlσr σf чσur hєαrt
trαnslucєnt ín nαturє
ín tunє wíth thє wínd
ínvísíвlє tσ thє єчє
чσu вαlαncє чαng αnd чín
чσu sprєαd чσur αurα tσ αll thαt чσu tσuch
чσu cαrrч thє єαrth ín чσur tєchní-cσlσrєd clutch

thє skч cαn вє чσur cαnvαs
dσ nσt lєt чσur hєαrt dím
fσr чσu, thє stαrs wíll shínє
thrσugh thє pσrєs σf чσur вríght skín

dσ nσt lєt чσur gíft gσ tσ wαstє
pαínt thє єαrth αnєw
dσ nσt fσrgєt чσur tαlєnts σr thє cσlσrs wíthín чσu
for you
Krishna Mehra Jun 30
We live in a histrionic world
A world full of words and emotions
A Shakespeare's theatre

Rolling the shots of life,
Weaving the emotions
Singing the lyrics of different verses
Dancing on the rhythm of our sword.

We are

//We are poets.
Dedicated to all the poets
Kagey Sage Jun 29
I need to ward off this feeling that I must analyze our break and my current state from every angle.

This is the third song, poem, or essay today. I need to get it all out now. Then, I’ll live and discuss other things. It’s the only way. I’m ripped away from hope and confidence. I should have celebrated life all week, being free from work for a bit. Instead, I lament my loneliness. For once in my life, I’m afraid you’re starting to canoodle with other guys. A fear I thought I shed in the aftermath when the last girl said goodbye. And honestly, I just thought I didn’t love you as much as her. I was afraid to really admit it, cause I thought, maybe I was just too crazy last time, and, as a more mature man, I did not need to be that paranoid worshipper I was before. I drove her away with clingy devotion, I know now. And that’s not a compliment to myself. I lose myself in these relationships, or so the girls say. “Where are your friends, your hobbies that you define yourself with?” Looking back, I think it’s all a lie. Maybe I search for relationships so I can be the lazy bonobo I truly want to be. Someone to stay home nearly every night with, eat bad food, watch T.V., sleep, and make love; I’m some faux intellectual artist just to reel you in. Then, I trick you into thinking you trapped me and stripped me of some potential greatness. Can’t I just be similar to you? Can’t my talk still define me somewhat? My hopes, my sometimes fulfilled ambitions of writing and playing instruments, I’m not where I say I wanna be. But maybe I need to aim for hopeless heights just to reach modest plateaus, still slowly climbing up the sky. Here I am, pouring concentrated effort into creative acts after years of comparable lull, and I won’t be happy with any of them until I look back from future comfort. I’ll be showing some girl under my arm this piece inbetween TV season binges. Now, doing what I define myself with most, I’m more miserable than I’ve been in months. Can’t help but believe all my art attempts suck. Yet, what’s really lacking in my life isn’t a confident talent, it’s a strong companion. Romantic or otherwise,

I pushed them away. Now, I’m too old and the world’s too odd for me to easily find another one.

Yet, when I do again get to that exciting stage of first dates, will I continue my artist rouse that soon concedes to comfort laze, or will I find someone who portrays a fellow adventure seeker? Seeming or genuine, it won’t really matter. It will be a interesting match of stamina. I’m sure I won’t mind if she breaks down and we spend a week on the couch, but how long can I keep up?

How is this all affecting me, besides the artist rouse breaking down, as I described above?
I’ll use a word, I don’t think I ever used to describe an emotion:

I’m feeling gray. Even wore a black and gray outfit, today. Decided to change the gray jeans to blue jeans to look more cheery at the $5 jam band concert. Then, around 3:30 pm, turns out the show was sold out online. They said I could try my luck at the door, but I feared I would drive 35 minutes to the city only to find I couldn’t get in, and would have to drive another 35 back. Oh, how I miss living close by like all my friends I would meet there. Though they all have girlfriends, so I’d be the 5th or 7th wheel. But, hey, it’s a concert, maybe I’d meet someone like before the internet. But goddamn, what hassle being out in the boonie ‘burbs! Last summer, I coulda just tried for a ticket, get denied and go home in like 15 minutes time. A year of my own place, split rent with one of the gals who thought I wasn’t reaching my goals. That was the prime of my bonobo times.
Rylie Jun 29
Art is a disease
that we pass to one another
carefully, picking and choosing
who gets a taste of the self-loathing
that cultivates an existential ambiguity.
The transmundane physcedlia that is just a
pair of sunglasses, the first lens a watered-down
rose. The other one, black and coating your throat
with harsh epiphanies that twist your arm just to say
“Hey, I can hurt you” and you can’t do anything about it
First poem I have ever released to the public :) Well, aside from when I was a kid. I hope you like it. Feedback is appreciated!
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