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Raven Feels Jan 31
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I'm well aware that nothing makes sense, including this poem :>

content is not something we give consent
you hold your pen yet the ink spills as it pleads
you are a walker of blood yet it sheds out when cut & bent
you have a brain yet the tongue blurts out the feels

content is not something we color
just an acceptance of the past
just a canvas you get to paint with limit bother
good for a day then a memory till it lasts

the kiss of a palm forehead & cheek
drafts in my head just to render a sleep
some greed never fed or a satisfaction to meet
yellow till it goes mustard & a shade deep

the saving of a night that would save the day
it's like it's gold but your swallowing the sand?
the desperation for a treasure at some bay
how would I even find content when out of the hand?


                                                         ­                         --------ravenfeeels
Allesha Eman Jan 25
You stole my fears
crushed their petals
to make a paint
that you use
to wash over this blank canvas
that is me,
when I am too afraid
too pensive
you surrender
to my hopeless hands
holding them in your palms of sand
brushing the tears
from tomorrow
onto this blank canvas
that is me.
little glowing flakes
blissful and divine
snow glistens into my bright blue eyes
the beauty of simplicity
of a simple blank white canvas
means winter is upon us
Farah Taskin Sep 2021
my mind
is a colourful
canvas
and
your beautiful
behaviour
is a pleasing
painting
Mark Wanless Aug 2021
******* wonder mind
walks the streets at midnight
with a spray can and brush

canvas the world
approval does not matter
they do they boo

hope meaningless
is is is that's all
a condition of existence

a consistent emptiness
to be filled with they
and the earth moves
Basquiat
Diksha Prashar Aug 2021
Thay say whole world is your canvas
Paint whatever you want
But no one's tell you
It has to be
Straight n perfect
Be my beautiful reader https://www.instagram.com/p/CSj2OG1FuTg/?utm_medium=copy_link
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2021
muse,
she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”

write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.

a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?



<>

wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.

eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.

this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.

this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.

<>

the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness



                                                     ­     






7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
when you are given the choice of no choice,
you write again and again of the same vision,
the same view that presents upon awakening.
On a blank space
    you were like the color yellow
as bright as the sun
that we share in this lifetime
       In open arms
  You have held me
while I was feeling blue
    together my love
Our green minds
   Made love
and
created another masterpiece
in this canvas of life
Mahal kita
Raven Feels Jun 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, when love is like a dream---we live not exist:>


love

when a skirting golden light sinks the morning room
when a chocolate's mist takes away the gloom
when a song blasts the ear you make a scream
when a coffee's first sip lightens the mind with steam
when a sea races the waves alone dived
when a rainbow kisses a mere the rain skied

when a heart makes a dance
when a landscape stills the stance
when a painted hand dirties the whites
when a moon never fails to shine in sight
when a run feels like the embrace of the winds mint
when a line flows a ray of a poem in every tint
and we live not exist


                                                                             ------ravenfeels
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