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SUDHANSHU KUMAR Feb 2023
Whenever I try to write about her
I feel like I don't have enough space on my paper
How can I define her? 
When I myself originated from her definition
How can I restrict her within a few lines? 
When my entire words are enslaved before her
How can I portray her life in a poem? 
When my own life is indebted to her...

And even if she herself asks to write her down
Then also, a tale for her won't be enough
Even if to summarise her down
I'd need to write a novel or two
And if she asks to be drawn down
Then nothing would be tougher than this
'Cause a canvas won't be able to hold her entire explosion of colours
And to counter that, I'd only be left with a single option... 
To build an art castle in a space not less than the sun!
Reposting...

Can u write down ur mum?
Edoardo Alaimo Oct 2022
I thought, boldly
That I could see your colours,
Hidden,
Under many layers

I see some azure,
Soft as the sky,
A welcoming, warm pink,
Just as real sunsets

Then some ****** red,
Where it hurts,
And a pitch black
In the shadows of your mind

I am just a fool,
Pretending to understand,
As you continue to refresh,
And brush new paints

Pick the best tones,
Let the canvas flourish,
Blooming like nature,
  In all seasons

I just hope
I can see a few of them
A few colours,
That would do

Or maybe,
A bit of you
13 Oct 2022
remember sight degrades over time,
use it to see the best colours of your life,
sweet or sour may them be.
you are precious
E. A.
She Writes Jul 2022
I am a blank canvas
Begging for an artist
To add a little color to my life
Raven Feels Jan 2022
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 you're swallowing the sand?
the desperation for a treasure at some bay
how would I even find content when out of the hand?


                                                         ­                         --------ravenfeeels
AE Jan 2022
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
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.
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