jas 21h

in love, (well sort of)
with a work of art
a masterpiece, if you will.
if I should ever come in its presence
I'd allow myself to be torn apart

to whom it may concern ;
in search of the artist
meant to be found before its tarnish
I will not rest until I meet my target

day 18 of 365
jas 3d
.

in
love
with the
ideas
of you

day 15 of 365
Latin 7d

It’s an idea
it’s a concept
it’s a tickle at a dream
its gone
slipped from your fingers
when you weren’t looking
you held it in your hands too long
neglecting to give it a place to grow
how was it ever to survive
with no home
no fuel
no care nor effort
best gone from your fingers
to find a better hand to slip through

Frank DeRose Jan 7

There are starving artists, yes.
But sometimes I think them more nourished,
Healthier,
Wealthier,
Than many with more dollars to their name,
And food to their claim.

Because at her worst, you see,
The starving artist still has this,
At least--
She has her ideas;
Her work;

Her art,
I mean.

The starving artist might be poor,
Losing in the box score
When all is quantified and qualified for measures of
'success'

But the starving artist is free.
He is alive,
He is allowed to be.

And he has his art,
His heart.

Because the worst kind of starving there can be,
You see,
Is to be stale out of ideas--
To be wallowing in writer's block
Staring at the blank canvas in shock
Holding the pen above the paper,
Cocked.

And unable to fire,
To release,
To express.

The worst kind of starving artist,
Instead,
Feels repressed.

The worst kind of starvation
Is malnourishment,
Not of the soul,
But of the heart--

Of art.

I had no ambitions
I had simply an idea
Your the one who volunteered
To bring it to life

You're the one who convinced me
That this could be done
That we would be partners
Throughout it all

Now you tell me
After I spent a month and half
Working on this, and falling in love with it
That it was doomed from the start

You tell me
That it was too ambitious
When honey you were the ambitious one
I was just a creator

Then you tell me
That I'll never succeed
But I'm not the one who bailed
On the one they called a friend

Now I'm the ambitious one
And the one with the idea's
And you're just the one who left
Because he was too afraid to fail

I write beautiful poems in my quiet times
Sign that the universe delivers in silence
Like sought after answers to some mysterious crimes
With a poetic virtuoso, I rely on my intelligence
Which I use to attract imaginative awareness
To access the creative ideas brewing in my head
Certainly, for I write about poetic greatness .
For this journey, quiet time is a poetic seed
Planted at night when the entire world sleeps
Some of which I'll hopefully harvest before the world wakes
Mostly the matured ones that quietly grows and creeps
Beyond the reaches of all poem hunters who takes
Unguarded letters and affix them with poetic wings
Wings powerful enough to take them very far away
To the constellations where every dead poets sings
Hymns composed in honor of sister Maya Angelo everyday .

twitter @ivanclappers
#IvanBrookspoetry

The universe speaks a special language called silence..It's only heard when time stands still ..

To the forgotten poems!
Dead for all not to see,
Unless your heart's romantic,
In which case they are free,

Roam my mind you unchained moments!
And flee my capture you Germans from Romans!

To the hunt! The contest! The chase we all endure!
For every one I’m able to express, may one hundred elude me!

Nichole Dec 2017

Life.
A rave party of atoms,
Ideas, events, everything; bouncing off-of each other creating,

Now.
A shallow breath, an itch, a masterpiece waiting to be made,
A symphony, a design, a calling.

Then.
Anger, hurt, despair.
Eating at me like a parasite,
Continual. 8

After.
Feeling relaxed, released, and recluse.
Life.

If you like it let me know :)
OnyxSea Dec 2017

The stilling of the mind,
so temporary and fine.

Grinding and breaking,
grounding and filling.
All things are turning,
and in for the making.

With contact, conception.
From perception, creation.
All ideas we have,
arise from destruction.

The bits and pieces of things once born,
the emptiness left when what's complete is gone.

Creation, Destruction,
Conception, Termination.
The cycle of things continue in procession.

For what's destroyed has pieces,
once put together,
containing within it a perfection beyond measure.

Thus things are recycled. ideas broken to create,
new things put together, what was once mashed by fate.

Piece by piece,
and part by part,
whats broken is complete,
like all things at the start.

So what does it matter,
when things fall apart?
We rebuild the beginning,
Right from the start.

To create a new future,
a story that is bright.
A series of advancements,
we all know is right.

Though we know we all die,
that things don't last forever.
Yet we do so happily,
knowing it will only get better.

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