Another daydream comes to me of our future life We are in a house together and you are my wife In your special room you are finishing a painting I come, very silent, to watch the beauty in the making But you turn around because you can feel my presence You smile at me and laugh, and I admire your essence! You come a little closer, give me a wondering look I know you see perfectly, I can read you like a book You want to know what I think about your piece of art I smile and tell you the truth about how it touched my heart You release a breath you didn't know you were holding You kiss me on my lips, distance is slowly closing And I take you in my arms and grab you by your waist You are so **** gorgeous that I can't have just a taste And as we stand there in the room, you in my embrace I can see there's a bit of paint somewhere on your face I take my ******* and clear the little spot And I start to wonder how the room got so hot And then I see us lying, cuddled on the ground Sun seems to be dawning, we don't make a sound Caressing your hair, feeling your heart beating Oh gods, how much I wish, I wasn't just daydreaming
The brush knew His gentle strokes filled with love Tired strokes of his trembling fingers And his rough strokes too His eyes were filled with stars Even though everyone gave him scars But that day When he sunk in loneliness Hands of that broken man Just couldn't move
An artist in name fact and form I keep on creating a reality that's torn from the Truth and its Lies that forced me still to stay blind with no passion nor time to mind the withering eyes in my portraits But artist I stay even when my brushes lay on a white cold place and my muse has died through the shapes that she tried to take on and survive so she walked out the door and the colours are no more with my hands painting still the lonely emptiness of my core
The first thing I see when I pull out the top drawer was the diagnosis. Meds, there you go
it pretty much said that. I wondered about all the creative people doing some remarkable things, creating and being alive.
Except they all one day killed themselves. Van Gogh stood in the overgrown field before he shot himself. Sylvia Plath knelt down and stuck her head in the oven. Virginia Woolf grazed the smooth peebles, thinking about what she would write about those peebles, Only to shove them in her pockets and drown in the Ouse river.
Nearly everyday, I tell myself I want to be a writer, or an artist- Both, actually. That’s all I ever wanted to be, but the fear of spiraling, and becoming them Is deeply disturbing.
Yet, I craved for this life, To paint, and create stories with a dash of madness They all did likewise.
Tightly stretched across the frame I am cut from unbleached cloth, The coarse craftmanship of my canvas awaits an artist's touch, Outline the path to discovery and redemption on my surface, Paint me with the colors of hope and prosperity as you guide my creation, Let the pigments dance across my existence as I glisten and gleam, I am a sight to behold, A testament to the contributions of all before me, Unified together through this masterpiece I now carry their legacy.
When I feel lost in this world full of potential and twists and turns When I feel I have no place in structured conversations and I barely recognize my face When I have no friends nor foes or at least I can't see them anymore my aunt, my cousin, my dad propose that art is always open that poetry will always listen and my history is my token I am the culmination of my family's art So I will work and tear myself apart with verses and rhymes and paintings and designs 'Cause our history has no end so long as on my shoulders it dipends
Happy International Poetry Day! This is to remind myself of my family's history with art. My dad writes poetry and used to paint, my aunt created beautiful art and my cousin is a pretty well-known painter. It truly runs in my family and I'm the last artist so far. I hope to make good use of their wisdom and love