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stopdoopy Sep 2019
so gentle and understanding

pining silently, too friendly looks

brushes, only an artist would use

our union under the moon

what should've been, blooming for you

even as I depart, I leave you keeper of my heart

watch over me well, my tender one
im in a sad gay mood for no reason, yeehaw
jess Mar 2018
bring out the ink, cover the page,
pools or creativity leak onto the desk.
you are incredible,
skill, abilities; boundless.
the sky's the limit and you’ve painted it with ten shades of blue.
brushes vary from size and shape,
pencils range in darkness and texture.
you create tones and shades,
different worlds, different beings present themselves;
bringing new things to existence,
making old things seem new.
you are an artist.
you create.
you, yourself, your art form,
a weapon.
skillful and sharp, utility.
along with your tools,
your training.
you too can become a weapon,
of mass creation.

wrote this for my writers craft class - I've hear the term "weapons for mass creation" and thought it was clever so I used it. I would give credit for that statement but I don't really know who said it.
Contoured Nov 2017
She was a monochromatic artist,
She carried grey on her brushes,
Grey on her canvas.

Years had passed,
painting the grey,
Until she met him,
on a casual day.
He asked for her art,
red engulfed her face.
She handed it over,
Felt her heart race.

As he painted atop,
her plain, grey work,
She noticed his quiver,
his subtle quirk.
He shook with excitement,
for what he created.
The strokes of his brush,
what they effectively stated.

The canvas flooded with color,
vibrant blue and red.
What once was just grey,
was every color instead.
He shared his paint,
and together they painted.
Hours, days, weeks, months,
they were quickly acquainted.

It soon became time,
to get on his way.
He packed up his paints,
left the next day.
Soon after he left,
her work began to fade.
What was once turquoise and magenta,
again became stone grey.

She carried grey on her brushes,
Grey on her canvas.
She was a monochromatic artist.
Late at night
when the world is still
and she sleeps peacefully

He places his favorite horsehair brush
upon the large blank canvas

Holding it like it was alive

cradling it

like a mother would a new born

He whispers and gently encourages it to flow
freely across the naked surface
of his yet to be masterpiece

He has given each brush a feminine name
each one a member of his artistic family
and tonight he paints with Olivia

As he raises her to the canvas
her plush curves hold the vibrant paint
only releasing enough to transform the white
into a delicate tapestry of colors

Olivia whispers
“Paint me a story of love”
and his arm begins to flow
his eyes focused
his breathing calm

The room is filled with gentle music
and Olivia sways gracefully
kissing the canvas
and leaving her essence behind

The stoic look he wears upon his face
the one he wears when he pants for her
Olivia has seen it before
humbled by his devotion
she consumes his fire
that he carries for her
deep within his heart

and dances across the canvas
as if it is her last ballet
his passion flows through her

the colors a divine rainbow
of their eternal love

this creation
a representation of his undying love
and passion for his sleeping queen

hours slip by
neither artist or brush realize
the cresting dawn has arrived

he steps back from the canvas
Olivia still in the grasp
of his warm embrace

He gazes upon their masterpiece

His tired eyes welling tears
he whispers
“Thank you my sweet Olivia”

She responds quietly
by letting one last single drop of red
fall from her hair
onto his chest
right above his heart
Eleanor Rigby Jul 2015
His thoughts are colours,
His hands are brushes,
And he touches me
Quite artistically.

-- Eleanor
even the wind brushes your hair the perfect way
Your body is your canvas.
You never keep it safe,
you adorn it with scars
of lost loves, of lost dreams, of all your burnt-out stars.

Your lifestyle's your easel,
the only thing that keeps you high,
be it the days when you just can't stay still,
or those when you shatter and cry.

Your thoughts are acrylics,
shades of melancholy, maroon and black.
They characterize your essence,
all the hopes and falls you've stacked.

Your words are your brushes,
imagine how many stories they tell.
With every sigh you define
another line within your personal hell.

Do not lose your ambition, don't give up your health,
for you are not just an artist, you are art itself.
Amitav Radiance May 2014
A blank canvas on an easel
Not splashed with hues, yet
Yearning for the stroke of a brush
And be painted with the painter’s dream
Most intimate of moments coming alive
Reflecting the colors of the heart and mind
Stroke after stroke, brushes caresses it
Coming alive, with passionate undertones
In cahoots with the painter, an **** of colors
Brushes of passion, colors the emptiness
A masterstroke of the painter; the canvas is filled
With these kaleidoscopic moments
Vivid imagery of the painter’s heart, is an Arts saga

© Amitav (Radiance)

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