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moon child Jan 24
Only the finest of artwork on my walls
Mark Rothko
Gustav Klimt
And countless photos of you
Danneli Jan 13
I had my artwork stolen
And your memory erased
My words were ripped from out of my grasp
My screaming heart replaced
My eyes still sting, dull but controlled
Their expression but skin deep
My knees were weak, and so I fell
But this time, no one caught me.
I've lost the poems I don't have here. They were taken from me. These will be too, when they're found. That's why I act. I can be whoever they want to see. I will be.
Edward Jan 7
ravens tear at me,
each clinging to their own piece.
rip me endlessly.
Luna Jay Dec 2018
A priceless piece of art in her precious gallery.
Punctured with a nail, she hangs for all to see.
Her creator, unknown.
A man masked in grey-
Took his artwork by the hand,
And traded her for pay.
Time spent perfecting; now long gone.
The Act or Art itself had gone all wrong.
The linework snakes through unknown feelings.
Canvas skin, your paint is peeling.
And here you sit, sealing
Your patches with rancid untruths.
These abused blue hues
He uses so aloof.
As your are hanging, with no tongue left for maiming,
He finds a new soul he believes needs framing.
You and she shall be the same-
Abuse and misuse are
Engrained in the brains
Of the women he has tried to tame…
But he is no artist.
Brandon Conway Aug 2018
Boundaries pushed for lights and dance
America so eager to imitate gave you no chance
So you moved to art nouveau France
Where you twirl, spin, ignite leaving crowds in a trance

How that silk captures the flame so bright
Tricks of mirrors and stroboscopic lights
You strobos angel of the night
The crowd watches as you twirl in dizzying flight

The silk rose opens and morphs to flame
As you spin and dance your way to fame
All those impostors you have put to shame
The opera house now pronounces you a grande dame

All that training, all that tiresome work
Damaged eyes and mind driven berserk
Has created a new form of serpentine artwork
Exploding luminescent colors, a dancing firework
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9u5afkEInEg
Isaac Aug 2018
I look back.
What a magnificent sight!
The colourful journey
of my life.
If I died right now,
I would die in awe
of the story I am in.
Couldn't ask for more.
This whole thing
has been a miracle.
A masterpiece of God,
his artwork so lyrical.
I thank you right now,
for the whole world to see.
It's your breathe of life
that has enabled me
to be me.
Written 13 August 2018
Allen James Aug 2018
Her gospel beauty rises early,
Yet always late to gratify,
With eyes that gleam with intuition,
They burn the shelter where thoughts hide,
Her creativity runs circles,
Around these worthless, old commandments,
And so new love approaches me,
The way a painter does a canvas.
K N Brown Jul 2018
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
JS Carie Jun 2018
Every new canvas or wood I begin, starts with a mental insult, turning into a dark alley street fight. All found objects are used as weapons.
Before my image, color, category, or medium is even applied. I somehow discredit or abuse the medium through extrasensory transference or ***** looks. Or am accused of it. After that, the cloth is unforgiving and taunting. And from there, I can not be placated and must defend myself.
Slights and wounds and offensive disrespects are hurled at me in hopes of defeatism and scarring. And my retaliation is never ready. I slink out into a restless sleep and awkward day, clearing my head, deep thinking and do research for inspiration on fighting a wooden bully. The resurfacing of my retribution comes firing back with thought and truth and defense, until my opponent has heard all it will hear and dares me.
From there I take battle in slinging and taping and throwing off-color remarks at this ***** for what seems like days, until I find the weak spot. And then, just pummel. Continue and repeat with a variety of similar strokes. This is when it gets worn out and I can see progress.
Like a beam of golden light. The pressure to finally usurp and overthrow all that has distracted me, is rolled out like a red carpet until the throne is visible. With violent blacks slung up top and lower, all flavors of blue bashed in the ribcage, muddy brown and ash around the knees and lower. And all over, a melting custard of crimson red drips erratic around this terrorizing yet pleading to just finish off this piece of wood or cloth. Covered in a multitude of cheap shots, unprofessional swatches, gorgeous strokes, and derivatives, we wipe the dust and tears and blood from our eyes and finally my opponent yields, and I am congratulated on another battle well fought.

"You don't always win", the board transfers
"Many have been left undefeated and unfinshed, stay humble you're learning wisdom and patience"

These words ring with echoing sound. On my walk home, my painted and smeared, ripped body and mind contemplative of all lessons and struggles, I long to tell Annie about the war I just had.
Will she listen...?
Geanna Jun 2018
Have you ever missed something so much,
It actually starts to hurt?

I miss the beautiful artwork I would create
on my body, the old ones are still there
But I want to create new ones

I miss painting the lovely color of
Dark red on my light brown skin
I miss the after look,
To see how far i've gone
I see the old ones and admire them
While others see them with such sad eyes

They don't understand
I don't expect them to
If only I can do it again
And again
  And again  
    And again  

To never get tired of it
My lovely artwork    
My lovely scars      
       My lovely blades  
Oh I miss you so
~ G.P.O
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