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Nylee Jun 17
How is it that you have written a story about me
without even knowing me
How is it that you have translated my feelings
which I have no idea about
How is it that there are hundreds of words I've never used
describing my thoughts exactly
You have drawn me with a single stroke of brush
a replica the mirror can never make
is this my imagination or your imagination
who is creating me
?
Jenish Apr 13
Nipped the brush, picked the paint, let the canvas fill
Oh my crush, like a saint, keep your head still
Let me first, draw the sketch, what a cute face!
Body next, let me fetch, lovely gaze and grace
Lines are made, streaks of color, your portrait is good
Bit of shade, made it duller, a monkey in woods.
I prepared new brushes to draw and paint
all the pain and bruises you’ve given me.

Yes, new brushes and gouaches for the fresh wounds
and heartaches that I would conceal in the coming days…

I’ll paint the bleeding sky for that chaos I chose not to end.
I’ll paint those nameless people who saw us together that night, wait, did they envied what they just witnessed?

I don’t quite know, but infatuation can go beyond the sleepless nights,
and in a fraction of a second can turn pain into trepidation and longing.

I’ll give you an exact picture of the hues of gray and black in the stories of ours
which we chose to finally put into an end.
b Nov 2019
that i liked the song your
boyfriend made.
i don’t. its bad. it doesnt mean
he is bad, just the song is bad.

all the alcohol i “drank” and
all the times i got “****** up”
or “smashed” in between
the ages of zero and nineteen.
lies. all i knew was the sadness
of others, my neighbours magnum opus.
why would i ever touch a brush for
myself when i could remake something
we all agree is beautiful.

when you once told me that
if two people stand at opposite sides
of the room and close their eyes,
if they keep walking forward
they’ll kiss. and when it didn’t
work the first time i guided you
into my lips and you smiled like
the sun was in us in that moment.

is that so wrong
Fayez Sep 2019
I walk,
A thick brush
Paints my way

I cross,
An inked bridge
My feet black

I stop,
The black brush
Paints a crossroad

I sit,
days pass by
As I ponder

I decide,
A blackened path
Walking on ink

I wait,
The brush draws
More diverging paths

I reach,
Holding the brush
Snapping in half

I look,
My body covered
In black ink

I walk,
My body blackened
My path white
A person and the brush that paints their path. An ode to fate, destiny, and the premise things happening for a reason.
Sometimes breaking the brush will make us lost and 'blackened', but atleast we will be free
he painted flourishing gardens
and stunning landscapes
using a palette of superb
colour drapes

in his homeland they toast
him with champagne
for his canvases hang
in their art gallery's lane

his works are worth
many millions of dollars
and they've been studied
by generations of scholars

of the impressionist style
was he
he had brush daubing
down to a tee

paint me a picture
if you possibly can
that will tell me
of this creative man
samara lael Jul 2019
use your brush
whether it be cracked or stained.
use it to paint a picture
that shows people why
they are made.

use it to write the words
that went unspoken.
use it to keep your mind
from swirling murky clouds
making you broken.  

paint me a picture
to explore what you do;
not for me to judge
but to admire what  
the Lord has poured into you.

~ share your gifts.
JT Nelson Jun 2019
Canvas
Blank and holding breath
Brush
Holding paint... shaking
Idea
Projected from my mind
Fear
Holding my hand back

Breath
Taken in and exhaled
Blink
To steady my eyes
Stroke
Of hand and brush as one
Don't
Look back... just create.
After long periods of not creating any art, the first jump back in can be daunting.
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