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Anya 1d
In elementary school
Things were so much simpler
My three titles-
-Basically defined me
In other’s eyes
I am lost
In a sea of people
No clear direction
No clear idea
Of who I am
Where I belong
will I ever?
"When you are loved by an artist, you are immortal," I paint the tips of your fingers with deep blue, and the ocean forms with a movement of your hand. Pretty, so very endlessly pretty. You make the elements of earth become even more endearing.

"You live in their every masterpiece, live in their every breath," I draw finishing touches on the edges of your mouth - that I want to kiss every moment - and shadows of despair form in the words that you let out. But they sound pretty, so very endlessly pretty. You make every word in the dictionary become even more meaningful.

"And when you hurt them, you live in their memories forever." I sew words into your skin and you wince in pain but you don't stop me.
Thank you for making this easier for me.
My new addiction
is to write good poetry;
ignoring day job
Renaldoe Sep 9
4am in a world away
I heard the news
Not best way to start the day
I wished it was just hearsay
I still do
See a big part of me
Was made from you
Talking through my earphones
Coaching me through life
Helping me fight
All the good fights
Singing and dancing
Crying, and now mourning
Countries apart
Yet you connected to me
You still do
Thank you for everything
You will be missed
RIP Mac Miller
Hands on brush and pallet tightening,

Ready eyes dissect the hills.

Taking aim, he strikes as lightning,

Carving deep, with studied skills.

Dashing streaks of leaden colour

Flash across the canvas bare.

Abstract lines of gallant valour

Pierce the flesh and slice the air.

Random arcs of crimson, spraying,

On the verdant backdrop fall.

Peppered strokes of fire weighing

On the artist’s tortured soul.

Fingers grip the cold steel trigger,

Gritting teeth and shoulders braced,

Sits the gunner’s tragic figure

Spitting shells as bullets raced.

Dripping sweat on greasy flannels,

Roaring rattle bursts the ear.

Drawing strength from mystic channels,

Praying, now, in silent fear.

Thankless is the art of killing,

Filling frames with grieving doom.

Bitter hearts of gunners willing,

Hang theirs in some secret room.
In the poem Artwork, I try to create an extended metaphor between the abstract artist and the machine gunner. The ground for this comparison is in the act of execution but the artwork of the gunner is exhibited privately in the secret, bitter gallery of his soul. The trochaic tetrameter used in epic poetry (such as the Finnish national epic, the Kalevala and the Greek national anthem, Hymn to Freedom by Dionysus Solomou) is adopted here rather cynically to give an air of pomp. I hope you enjoy it.
I see a canvas behind your eyes
I see the artist in disguise
I see the portrait made so no one else will see
I see dimly lit sands and beyond a vast sea
I see your palette--black and grey
I see, as we all do, the bright paints you display
I see in your eyes your dripping color
I see that you don't trust a single other
I see, because the eyes interpret the heart
I see, and realize you are just like me
I see, and I long to remedy
Not sure about the title...
Daidaiiro Aug 27
The greatest artist
You've ever met
Saw a flawed world
Through her mint green eyes
Because she's picky
A perfectionist
She only drew
Beautiful things

A quiet melody
Nobody has ever heard
She sang it to you
It got stuck in your head
Her intelligent eyes
Hypnotized you
And tied you to the chair
As she raised her brush

You sat still
And became curious
With smart strokes
She sits and paints
Taking a closer look
You see your face
Why me, you ask
And she replies
Smiling softly;
Because I only draw beautiful things
you "know" me.
but you don't know me.

the me you know,
is a bright, introverted mess.
an artist with a touch of glitter.
a stranger.

i, on the other hand,
am dull on both the inside,
and outside.
my emotion is yet to be determined
even by me.
and negativity is the highlight
of my personality.

you don't know me -
you don't want to know me.

- v.m
I wish I could paint the sky like Sally does,
And catch the clouds that gather on the ground,
The bright round picked-up penny of the moon;
The point where blue and pink can bleed together.
For my sister, who is a painter.
A M Ryder Dec 2016
When it's blown to pieces, that's when it becomes art.
Art is a demon, a demon that drags you along.
It's messy and dirty when it pours out of you.
It's not something you can stop even if you should.
Maybe your wife leaves you
Maybe your kid runs away
Maybe you go insane..
You throw yourself away to be an artist
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