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xaiv vos Nov 2017
you claim that I'm a masterpiece

I wonder if it's because I let you study every layer
and better yet
let you leave your mark

I handed you my heart in the early spring
carving your initials in my bark before I could fully grow leaves

I let you storm my temple
and graffiti my walls
making yourself feel right at home

I felt no need to stop you
completely captivated by your ability to paint me in every color

you could claim me as your masterpiece
Em Jan 2017
stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.
i'm really not sure if this is nonsense, but it comes from the heart and that must count for something
AD Snail Dec 2016
I cannot dare look down at the marks;
That I have casted upon myself.
I am a canvas with paint splatters of abuse,
I mistreated the use of my brushes.

I am starting to become careless with the color red,
The red paint is everywhere now showing my dread.

I have committed a crime against thee canvas,
Now I am becoming anxious with taking my chances.
It would be best if I was handless,
Then I wouldn’t be listening to this sadness and destroying my precious canvas.

I am a bandit,
Taking and letting things slip away.

Slowly I am losing this art battle,
But I am starting to not become a sore loser.
Worry is no longer getting the best of me,
I shall not be afraid of the blackness of defeat.

Wish me the best.
Applause me for my wonderful art work,
Because I gave you exactly what you wanted,
Can’t you see? I followed your exact instructions.

I have a lifeless canvas, that is white as a sheet,
Though I colored all over it.
This plainness came with some practice.

Oh I am so sorry, my canvas just landed on the hard floor,
I seemed I couldn’t appreciated it enough,
So now I must bid you a due now.
Audrey Maday Nov 2016
I was a work of art;
You fell in love.
Until you realized you could look,
But couldn't touch
Peter Simon Oct 2016
You were a storm that ruined her.
She was a piece of land who delightedly endured you.
She asked for rain, you gave her hurricane.
And after you're done, you left her ravaged.
But that's fine, she was an artwork;
And she still is.
She gave herself to you, but she'll never give herself to anyone else.

Your paint was the only thing spilled to the canvass;
Her canvass.
And if we are to dust her heart for fingerprints,
I'd be certain we'd only find yours.
© Peter Simon
2016
Kaitlyn Mitchell Oct 2016
Such beauty
Such artwork
Flows from the mind
What cries
What laughs
At the same time
What ends
What starts
Without a defined line

Such form
Such grace
In every pen stroke
A painting with words
Capturing minds
Freeing the souls
It's over, last line
Release the pen
And sigh
Paul M Chafer Sep 2016
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Henry had thought, not so long ago,
As birds, looped, swooped and soared,
Flocks of starlings, offering a show.

Jen and Olly, were Henry’s best friends,
Three ghostly bunnies with nothing to do,
Then Olly twitched his wispy whiskers,
Until large mushrooms suddenly grew.

Mushrooms so nice, they sat upon them,
And despite what they had been taught,
It seemed, within this, imagination world,
Creation occurred, with a single thought.

Jen giggled, wiggled, her delicate nose,
And three pink kites appeared overhead,
Swooping and soaring, just like starlings,
But held from a silken, gossamer, thread.

Henry’s turn, so smiling at his friends,
He performed a funny ‘bunny-like’ hop,
Creating a bracing, fresh, gusting breeze,
Making their ears go, all-a-flippity-flop.

On mushroom seats, ghostly bunnies sat,
Their minds twirling with kites, so high,
Henry recalled thinking, not so long ago,
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
This poem was inspired by a piece of art created by Clare Lindley, a talented artist from Yorkshire in the UK.
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