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Amy Perry Dec 2016
There are more things
That are not things
Than there are things
That are things.
Potential is a powerful,
Abundant resource.
To tap into the
Unknown, uncharted,
Unachieved, departed -
And introduce it to
What it means to Be -
Makes every artist
A midwife.
Without the great alchemists -
The artists, the dreamers,
Visionaries, poets, musicians -
Those who enter into
Akashic Records
Like a library -
We would only ever have
What has already came to be.
Like a technical computer reality.
Art brings us closer
To the cusp of Life.
Mother Earth is the greatest artist
I've ever known.
Being Human means
Being an artist.
Our Mother may soon
Scold us
For coloring all over the walls.
Making an artist takes time.
In the Universe,
There's plenty of that.
abp
Sam Ciel Dec 2016
Abstract tears bring melancholy rain
Concrete fears and whitewashed pain.
I sit perched upon my precipice
Teetering and testing tinctures of tumultuous joy and overwhelming sorrow,
Looking back at yesterday and forward to tomorrow,
Tentatively trying to find my balance.

The idea of tomorrow surrendered forever ago as the options narrowed;
Continue forward, carefully planning each step, measuring it down to the quark, exhausting myself with the weight of a thousand heartaches and broken dreams, tearing myself apart at the seams
Tearing myself apart as it seems that no matter how many steps I take, and no matter how many times I break,
I'll never get where I'm meant to be.
There are no longer options two, or three. All I know is to go forward.

And yesterday seems so far away, as the images unfold in my mind;
Tick tock things unwind
Click the lock, "you'll be fine"
Smash the clock as time rewinds
I resign and rescind my thoughts;
I don't like looking back.

And memories last longer than bruises,
But just because someone else wins,
Doesn't mean everyone else loses.
A battle fought is a lesson learned
A lesson taught by those who've earned
The knowledge that won them that battle.
But not the war
Lost in the worlds of after and before
I slip and as the world rushes towards
My hands catch the edge
And I look not up, not down, but I look around.

I am greeted by a multitude of sheer drops and cliff faces
Tightrope walks and narrow spaces
By people around confronting their fears
Abstract pains and concrete tears;
The burden I bear and the weight of my steps
Is a reflection I share with every breath
Mirrored in the world around me...

And so my message to all of you battle-scarred
Benevolent beautiful badass bards:
Pull yourself back up
And try again.
I say it every time, but now more than ever... Keep writing. -Sam Ciel
tamia Dec 2016
to the brilliant minds of the warehouse
who embraced all oddities
in painted nails and tattoos,
whose hands worked wonders
and made masterpieces,
who loved the world
and spoke up
in technicolor and loud sounds...

you will always blaze brighter
than the fires that took you
to the victims of the oakland ghostship warehouse fire... you will always be remembered.
Winter Sparrow Dec 2016
For every writer without a story
for every lover without lust
for every poet without a rhyme
for every actor without a stage
for every singer without a song
for ever painter without a brush
for every child without a father
for every hero without a mother
for every god without prayer
for every politician without a lie
for every artist without a muse

I salute your will to carry on
Dont look for money, company and noise
Seek silence, death and fear
Only then, will what you dont have, be gained

In order to find a muse, it must take something from you:
A dream, a lover, an accomplishment, a memory.
Come and look at my family
it’s big and rambunctious
they all mean a lot to me
theres lots of different branches
there’s a writer, called M. Rase
and David too
they’ve taught me things I never knew
but of course they all do
Im related to royalty
a king and a queen
Named Jose and Whispwill respectively
I wonder if they’ve met each other yet?
Then there’s determined Yuu
who shredded my heart with Blackberry Tea
some of them have hurt me, don’t worry though
I’m sure their OC's will be fine after all they’ve been through
R. Merryweather writes lots of things
there’s even a new series
next is Vel, with her apocalyptic mysteries
Ana and Kittie are new to the family
give them a big welcome when you see them
Rukan’s drawing a series, seki and keisuke are my OTP
Bob likes animals, she’s a skilled gal
I really miss Yuumei, Wave, and Jun Lee
but they’ll return someday, you’ll see
Kura updated recently, Nick brought me to tears
MAT and Ariel Ries crossed different boundaries
but everything will be alright
NaniRoxy's not around, she’s making some adjustments
so you’ll just have to leave a message
Viryse is in the hoodie brigade
with Yuu, Jose, and Kao too
GlanceReviver and KJ Tower
write exciting love stories
SnailLords is gone, but not really
he moved his web series such a tease
Captain Juuter and Kinkan Yoona
slice up life in different ways
this is badly written and doesn’t make sense
and I know its long but it needed to be said
and someday you can meet the rest of them
the rest of my big family
These are the users of artists on Tapastic, give them a looksie if you've got time
Noah A Baker Mar 2016
So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.

Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.

Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".  
To map a new demographic before our deaths.

If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.

And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.

We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.

The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.
background:
we always struggle with pursuing what we want to do due to us believing we can't, or lack of resources, that we don't have what it takes, etc. And that's more or less fear making you think that. Once you let go of the fear in your head you can chase your dreams and passions. Once you realize that it's just a mental block, and you remove it, the world is yours to do what you want. Enjoy!
Nico Reznick Jan 2016
If I somehow
***** this up, and die
in some stupid, boring, clichéed,
romantically tragic way
while I'm still sort of
young and
sort of attractive, and
you are, too,
I hope you
**** on my grave,
howl profanity at the couldn't-give-a-**** sky,
and curse me inside-out
for being
so derivative and
predictable.
For Mr Derek Devereaux Smith
Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.

A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.

And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.

Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.

Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.
Of many a poet and musician I have known.
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