Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bullet Apr 2020

I'm coloring in these tensiles
Shapes test patterns to sell
Instead I'm constructing a new formation
My mentality blending in with my insanity
Painting in pain so the light spilt into the paint
Running deep blue waters while yellow splashes in with the compassion
Bubbles piling up to pop at the surface to serve my dying face
A boat bought sinks with beautiful daffodils as poetry
Separates the ink from the words
Colors distorted from the canvas
As I emerge the sky is now mine
All these patterns I've gained
Become my whole page
Tell a scope because my view is far out
Tessellated picture is now draped as my soul
Proceed my figure and we both shall see the sea shells

Art is whatever you interpret it to be
Poetic T Apr 2020
I find the allure of burgundy hues,
          not one for the corpse of grapes,


squeezed of every essence of life...

But the allure haemorrhaging forth..

I could be buried within this collage of
And when I dig myself from it,
I would  paint,
                                seeing  a picture of vigour.

Not the outline that others see ,
                its chalk lined on the canvass.

Its not deceased,

                           this moment has only just breathed.
my fav colour is red
Danny Jan 2020
No music but the pen won't stop taking the hand for a dance on the stage

No tides, the halcyon has come to brood but the ink won't stop flowing over the banks

No noise but the empty canvass won't stop shouting at the painter to smear his paints and quit dilly-dallying
Drippy pen
Dhaye Margaux Dec 2016
Color me with hues coming from your heart
Touch me gently as you hold your brush
Draw every memory you want to come alive
Put them gently and never do it in a rush


Leave traces of your hand all around my frame
Make me your reflection,  your soul's looking glass
Feed your spirit with creation you always want
Color me with shades of you,  make me your prettiest canvass

I really miss painting... (:
Sumina Thapaliya Oct 2015
He painted me with the faith
Color  to make me as his wish
I was so glad he believe me
I would be real in his sketch

He hold me, croon for me
Dance and smirk with me
He comes close to share his emotion
I feel proud as I shine in his passion


Where are you going leaving me alone?
I could not be here without your shadow
I feel suffocation in this canvass
I would be scared in this dimness

I am so isolate without your hug
You make me smile blush me up
Now I can't be happy nor can cry
As the tears will take identity of my
The only thing you left for me
The only thing I can carry for you
That makes me feel alive in this canvass
epictails Jun 2015
We grow up believing that the magic stays. But it never really does. Experience skins us, bares us open. To a reality that is far from what we want ourselves. As children we were blank canvasses. Time went on and so did life bring so many colors to that canvass. Sometimes bright, sometimes dark. Filling the white, pure spaces as each day we learn to fear, to hope , to love and to desire. But we also lose our ability to just go back to that blank slate. Where everything is clearer, unclouded. And we just think that the world is full of it, when all along we are just full of it.

I'd like to know the art of just being that empty canvass again. To learn and to unlearn every color that the world has given me. To be thrown into an absolute mess but still go back to where I came from.
HP has become some sort of journal for me where I can express my thoughts that people will just undoubtedly dismiss because they are too weird or too abstract or idk. I'd like to think of these things though. I am someone who takes comfort in her thoughts and these are the kinds of things that fly to my mind when I am alone. This beats thinking about my professor failing me because I am just writing instead of  playing by her rules.
Dhaye Margaux Jun 2015
She undressed in front of the mirror
Then stared at it once again
To that amazing canvass for years
To it, painted every emotion
Every pain, every laughter
Yes, both her joy and sadness
The storms she has faced
The mountains she has climbed
The seas, the rivers, the lakes
Every wave she passed
But the most beautiful painting
Was the man holding a glass bird
It is there, where she can hear her heartbeats
That painting...

— The End —