She is not just an empty canvas for you to fill up your filthy art
She is not just an empty canvas for you to flow out your dark desires in red seduction
She is not just an empty canvas for you to write out your ***** poetry in paint
She is not just an empty canvas for you to colour her in pink and purple that are made up of your lies
She is not just an empty canvas for you to throw out your anger in chili red and orange like fire

the sky was muddled with colors:
each fighting to show their brilliance.
it was like watching a Sophocles creation
spun from truth and tombs.
scenes changed as wheels turned underneath me.
Yellow entered from the left and Orange from the right.
they reached for each other, vibrant and deafening.
Love ensued at their touch.
they danced off the stage,
hand in hand.
Green stepped into the light with a monologue.
he spoke of love lost and worlds split
down the center. he faded away as
Blue and Red marched onto the stage,
singing their songs of tragedy and bloodshed,
bleeding into each other- a Purple harmony.

Black overcame every element, every happiness.
Black was the inevitable.
Black was the curtain call.
Black was death.
but even then,
there was light.
in the stars I found hope and beauty.
in the stars I found you.

Night fell swiftly as she began to climb
The hill upwards one trudge at a time
And when she reached that grassy peak
Her heart - it stopped, she could not speak
For beneath her lay in all its glory
The city so flawless and often in stories
It was a black canvas as dark as ink
And was so large she seemed to shrink
And across the canvas brilliantly flecked
Were flakes of gold - no special effect
The lights they danced and winked and beckoned
So perfect, so pure for every second
But when she realised she had to leave
She wore her heart upon her sleeve
Her face wistful and longing expressed
For the view from atop the hill's crest.

I gracefully begin painting a masterpiece with black and white
My fingers, the paintbrush
The piano, the canvas
Whose keys unlock a world of passion and creativity
Meandering through melancholy minor and merry majors
The keys sing melodies as my fingers dance across the canvas
Something I've learned, something that can transcend
This world of music and into the way we live
Playing music and creating music
Those are two different things
When we live life, what do we bring
Are we merely pressing white and black keys
Or are we intentionally engaging our unique hearts
Bringing color to what was lifeless, not simply playing a part
Do we live passively, or are our hearts bursting with excitement
An anticipation that the One whose Son He sent
Is going to move tremendously, is going to Open eyes for people to see
That life with Him is greater than anything the world dreams
That Only His love can satisfy the void in a soul
And that He removes skin that's old
He softens hearts that have grown cold

His intricate fingers
shadowing your soft cheeks,
and picking apart rainbows
to mix with your eyes.

He studies your lips
and knows exactly what shade,
defining your dimples
and sprinkling on freckles.

Strokes of a dark brush
running from your face,
like a chocolate river
or a wild bear in the woods.

He captures the way
you stand with the moon,
longing to live with the stars
and deny the force that holds you.

He draws the veins on your wrist
like blue broken tree limbs,
with scars that resemble
the night sky.

Shuttering greys
leave with dark shadows,
a landscape full of black;
he portrays you as the sun.

She tried
to paint pain
on the canvas
but failed
cause..
sometimes the pain
must only
be felt
and not portrayed !!

26 | 31 Poems for August

I am a blank page, craving for your ink to bleed onto me.
Your thoughts and secrets are safe with me.
Chain yourself to the idea of freedom and slowly begin to liberate me.
Metaphors and similes hit the page at extremely high velocities.
People should often see your pen in motion, you write your poems differently.
It’s fascinating how you create poetry out of silence.
I’ve felt you, seen you give life to things like love, pain, peace and violence.
As soon as inspiration ignites, you gradually begin to write late in the peaceful hours of the night.
Everyone knows that your words and verses tend to excite.
The day your muse realised that words could touch her, she wanted to become a poem.
The type of poem that Maya Angelou’s ink always dreamt about.
Keep respecting your craft, make it more constructive.
Live life and regret nothing, be completely destructive.
You have spent endless nights, hopelessly staring into the void that you are constantly trying to avoid.
Your mind is constantly being filled up with possible poems, people should really see your pen in motion.
You are the Michelangelo of flow, you paint pictures with your poems.
You are the countless calm moments after months and years of violence.
It’s fascinating how you effortlessly create poetry out of silence.
People should see your pen in motion, you write your poems differently.
But I wish you took more time to write.