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I had always been invisible 
Like that first blank page in a novel
Passed over and forgotten as nothing at all

You have made me into something more
A beauty you found inside soaking through
As ink through my thin paper facade
That you drew out and alined
Making me into your work of art

Our eyes met in the long silences
as the lines between us we're inked
Not only by needles but by sparks
A lit match burns so hot
In it's short and glorious life

Now that I have your mark in my skin
They will stop and stare in wonder
But I finally do not need to be seen
© LadyRavenhill 2018
art has
no discounts;
it creates habits
which you can't support,
it creates
leftover
cigarette buds
which are suddenly
so attractive
and smokable.
it cuts scars
right open,
makes them
ripe
for seeding,
it rots the seeds,
proceeds to
plant them
in any
visible sore
and then,
one day,
you're suddenly
decaying.

art has
no discounts,
only one form of
contract-
"sign here
to agree
to a lack
of food
and an increase
in the rate
of your
mental
degeneration".

art has
no discounts;
yet here I sit,
writing,
because there's
no
universe
without
it .
There's an artistic sensuality to what she does luring with the eyes and capturing with the body, each motion a painters ****** on a master piece she is a master of her craft both artist and art. She will burn you to the core and bring forth your rebirth from the ashes, she is a phoenix she is a goddess, she is perfectly imperfect
Lauren M Nov 26
Oh look, here’s another artist.
Nostalgic since birth and obsessed with their own mortality,
counting what is worth noticing before we are all exiled, cut
off from our own bodies.
Yes, we all know what’s coming, sh.
It’s all been heard before, all been seen.
So don’t raise your voice with worn out warnings,
dry as wind whispering through desert caves,
you are echoing the trumpets
that have sounded since the beginning of time.

Now here comes a lover coated in gleaming delusion,
confident in the supreme uniqueness of her experience,
asserting that no,
you cannot possibly know what it is like.
This is different.
        And when it falls apart, the uproar!
        The injustice of it! The tragedy!
        and the loneliness,
        as if no one else had ever felt rejection,
        as if no one else had ever discovered
        that love is painful and reductive.
        Disillusioned and duped she wonders why
        there were no warnings. Imagine!
        Living in this world and not hearing warnings,
        or hearing them and having the arrogance to say no,
        it does not apply to me,
        you cannot possibly know.

And now the green poet floats by,
driven on by spring breezes and the color of wildflowers.
Wide-eyed but never quite struck dumb,
he gawks and wonders and wishes,
plucking detail from gulls’ wings and leaves’ veins,
gamely trying to translate and bankrupting the dictionary every time,
saying “this is beautiful” over and over,
not unlike a tourist.
And like a tourist disappearing
before he sees the bleak and desperate side,
the side that rears it’s head with hungry eyes
and regards you as a stranger.

But still, to create something that absorbs all that people say about it.
To become something like that, finally.
Maybe … it is still worth something?

But no,
time to time, there has been time. Time
for the sun to rise and set,
and for the stars to be born and then burn out. Time
to hear the rise and fall of a thousand stories,
and a thousand more. Time
to be filled with curiosity and questions. Time
to stop asking questions. Time
to see the same patterns again and again. Time
for new patterns, but with the same trite components. Time
to say all that is worth saying, and more.
Much more.
The same voices, the same faces,
the same conversations, again.
The contrast getting grayer, going soft.
And once again all these young people
using their superlatives, investing everything right away,
saying “this is important.”
Children who believe the best and worst things
that have ever happened
are happening now.

Is it problematic to say I find my own heartbeat cliché?
Even the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe
exasperates me. It’s been done before,
it’s all been done before.
This is why I will never point at anything and say
“this is something.”
Nor will I say who I am or who you are.
I leave you to your own **** assumptions.
Prettier than a lone rose in the winter, like a rainbow coloured umbrella on a snowy desert, you stand out. You're more special than a purple sunset, you're so beautiful, and you don't know how that smile makes lions purr. Noah_arkenswagg
Aa Harvey Nov 24
Black ink thrown onto a canvas


Art is a betrayal of the senses.
The thoughts you think only leave you senseless.
Like an apprentice, endless, defenceless and depressed.
A hole inside a whole mind of a complete mess.


An image of emptiness can never be painted,
But painstaking hearts are willing to try this,
For they have waited for this long,
For you to write their wrongs in songs
And cure the curse of verse, chorus, verse.


Release the words or remain entrapped,
Hidden in the dark beneath the mask.
True remorse I lack,
Because of a reminder to self:
Don’t look at the sword in your back.


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Why do tormented souls
Produce the most beautiful lines
As if intrinsically, in artistic manner
Is the only way to express their cries
Why do we call something beautiful
Though there is sadness behind
An art so accurately portrayed
With feelings too deep to find
I thought beauty was reserved
Only for positive things in mind
And yet we also tend to love
What was too painful to defined
Apporva Arya Nov 18
Am an artist,
Bounded to feel,
Less to speak..
Void to live,
love to seek..
Crown to win,
Legacy to build,
Fight till death,
Till pay all debt..

Abused and harassed,
Faced grey's and dark..
Facing the waves,
Living in mind caves.

Swearing at night,
Dreaming exotic life.
Freezes my smile,
When lonely breeze blow high..

So listen to me,
While i scream.
This feel is real,
The scattered is healed..
This time wont stop,
When climbing to the top.
Just told my half story,
Still
To earn pride and glory..
Poetry is giving me wings to express the unsaid,the untold stories of my life. This time i will be speaking myself .Expressing my way of life.
Manan sheel Nov 17
How do I know,
when is the time,
when this love of the transient,
this love of the strings of the sunlight,
this love of the color of the birds,
this love of the *** flowers,
this love of your expressions,
this love of art,
this maddening love,
will turn into the love of the soul,
will turn into the love of the artist?

© Manan sheel.
It was when I was colorless and filled with empty hues that you found my lifeless self. The canvas that was sought after— only to stain with abstract lines resembling pain and misery— resides within me. Sweaty palms, heaving chests and hollowed hearts were the things I used to see from the people that held me close.

And there was you.. with your sweaty palms and heaving chest and hollowed heart. You came to me and broke the frame I have covered myself with to hide myself from people who have no intentions of keeping me— whose only desire is to tinge me with throes to dispose of the ache and save themselves.

But you stared at me like you are fascinated with the art that I am to exist. You gently stroked me with your loving brush of emotions and hidden feelings. You painted me the streak color of loneliness and the beauty of sadness that drives people to create masterpieces— and I was yours.

I was yours but you were never mine. The cacophonous sound of your brushes while kissing the surface of my being started to irk your ears. You splashed me the colors of blue and hate. By then, I knew I love you and I knew you don't. I was loathed for the unpleasant colors you spilled me with. And I hated myself more for loving you still as you painted me and filled me with unsightly parts of you.
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