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Nylee Sep 27
Art speaks words unheard,
   The feelings paints pictures unseen.
       It is beauty
and drastic ideas combined
      A mix of pleasure and pain
      All experiences add a different taste
        Rough edges and smoothness entwined.
Touch it and fall into a dream
The artist lived and lives within
I will sing a poem for you
I can summon the rain and rainbows too.

I will paint on canvas for you
I let the portrait talk and be obedient too.

I will capture sunsets for you
I will turn red into purple like how I used to.
everything for you
Kale Sep 16
My love is confused
It is entangled with depression
Anxiety and non committal views
My love shows me nothing but pain
And loneliness
Shows me my worthless existence can
Still be awaken
And greeted by a blank canvas of
Meaningless lonely adventure
Antares Aug 26
milk hair, milk clothes
a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream
the whirr of a printing press on blank paper
The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears.

A mirror bought to
of echoing frailty,
a chord at its highest piercing note.

The crescendo before dusk.

pair of hands encased in its own
Who                                                          ­  
polite and light on the tongue,
                                                         ­                   a vain blind
                                                                ­           no less
Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch.
It prays.
                                         Soundless noise.
                                                          ­      not a pin-drop
                                                                ­       not the screeches of bosses

And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine.
It screams.
The mirror.                                      

Cell             blown to bits
Custody               broken

Mirror tattered
refunded at a bitter price.    

Blank as snow and crisp as winter.
Gone like snow the very next morning.
But ever so physically there.
I have no clue
Pulse Aug 7
Covered in love.

Blue and purple, green, black and yellow.

I’m buried in your affections dear,

And they choke me,

clawing at my throat until it’s bloodied and bruised.

You paint a grisly work across my body love,

For what am I to you but a canvas for your twisting violately emotions?

Some days there are kisses,
and others you dip your paintbrush into colours,
that burn and ache across my skin.

And I am small in the face of you and your horrid passion,

I am insignificant and controllable.

And you are an artist of brutality,

You are a lover made up of cruelty.

There is nothing beautiful about your artwork darling,
Just as there is nothing warm in our love.

Where is our love?

Among these savage acts and violent tools,
among the broken, bruised skin?

No, there is no love here.

At least, none that I can find.

I am out of love for you,
And it has been so very long since you last loved me.

So I will try and wash out your paints,
And your coloured loved,
And build myself back up.

You are not my world.

I am my own person.

Do not paint me,
in your **** colours anymore.

I am no canvas of yours.
danna22081 Aug 5
It might be said:

It seems like I haven’t written in some time,
And for the most part, I feel like the culprit of an unconscionable crime,
Since I have concealed the truth;
The resonating echoes of suffering endurance
As tears relentlessly rolled from my eyes.

I don’t mean to superficially endorse my emotional inconsistencies.
You see, I’m not one to drag my legs after the crowd of glaring faces,
Who tend to blindly follow the patches of dirt so deeply treaded upon,
Holes of inescapable traces become no more than hazes... shadows
Embedded within their hearts… for they will not, and cannot turn back.

Yes, I do see the monotonal wisps embedded within the pits of my world every once in a while.
Blacks and whites come in more than the empty, obscured skies,
Of brightly-scattered stars every twelve hours.
This place is not an epitome of intricated shades
Painted on an innocent, blank spread of canvas.

They can never turn back, though they decide so blindly,
Alongside their extravagant loops of wonder, interwoven within the flutters of unprecedented laughter,
Curling lips, rosy cheeks,
As they glance up to the blinding streams of light…
The one they thought was theirs.

But they weren’t theirs; they were nothing more than clandestine deceit,
Clearer than the fullest moon in the pitch blotches of a long, lonely night,
Stretching into the depths of their deep-rooted perceptions,
The strands of monotone they so greatly ignored.

I choose to see the blacks of night,
And the whites of light in my world;
It clears my vision,
Despite being psychologically-driven.
Sometimes, the one you love
Is the underlying monotone you blindly overlooked.
I think with my mind,
And not with my heart.
You see... I'm a bit complicated.
Jason Drury Aug 2
Drawing pictures,
is graphite make-believe.
You can bring life,
or darkness.
Are you god?
Do you have control?
Scribbles, judgments,
of squares, circles
and unhappy faces.
Crumble up,
the paper tightly.
Throw away, let go.

Maybe its time,
To start over.
Sends me ballistic,
I can't function!

The beast in me won't stay in its grave!

A mental misfit-
Tell me am I too much to save?

These pastel colours are painted on my life pallet:
Love and Laughter,
Rage and Regret
The memories I'm after
The memories I want to forget
The red and blues are abused

These aren't the colours I should see!
How could I tell you?
You never come through-
It is killing me
I'm at the point where it hurts so much I hurt myself
Don't you understand the meaning of 'help'?
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
Anastasia Jul 8
a white sheet of paper
to some,
to others,
an inviting canvas
sharpies lined up
in a rainbow
hand picked
and thought out
by ink-stained hands
then a line
what a miracle
the marker is
to create
with nothing
but the turn of a wrist
drag it along
with your rainbow of colors
and create
perhaps a red penciled rose
With few of blue
and thorns of green
or maybe
a cerulean sea
turquoise waves
white froth
emerald turtles
and golden sand
or possibly
a boy
with ashen hair
and icy eyes
rose petal cheeks
and baby-soft lips
something beautiful
and dreams
Wrote this on the long way back from edwardsville.
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