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stillhuman Apr 10
An artist in name fact and form
I keep on creating a reality that's torn
from the Truth and its Lies
that forced me still to stay blind
with no passion nor time
to mind the withering eyes
in my portraits
But artist I stay
even when my brushes lay
on a white cold place
and my muse has died
through the shapes that she tried
to take on and survive
so she walked out the door
and the colours are no more
with my hands painting still
the lonely emptiness of my core
Maria Etre Mar 9
He blew me a kiss
that blew my muses
        n                    a                 e               f                   h   o
i                    o                 s                 o          e        p            r                aaaaa
         ­       t                                   a                     u                           i
Patrice A Mar 7
I spent all those years
painting achromatic smiles
on my sad muses.
Kaliya Skye Jan 12
it's electric
chilling to the touch
can't let go of the idea

your hands gliding
down my arms
to grasp my hands

it's a silly i suppose
the way i dream of you
but i can't help it

have we met before?
or do you stay here
during waking life?

locked away, as i remain.
longing for the moments of rest
where i'll still find you

do you wait for me?
between delicate dreams
and a fifth dimension?

do you know how you move me?
phantom touches of fingertips
as you look into my eyes?

god, i'd love to be loved
to remember the glow if it,
even for a moment.

to remember how it feels
to wear a borrowed sweater
or to lend mine to a lover

to wear it.
the hug that lasts
'til you decide it's over

to feel it.
the warmth that lingers,
your heart in their sleeves

to breathe it.
the smell of their cologne,
the connected memories of being held

held in a way that let you know
that they never want to let go,
that to do so is a temporary measure

so later on,
they can embrace you once again
reliving the euphoria of human connection

but is it love?
to crave when you are so starved
or is it merely loneliness

to crave the escape of a lover's arms
carefully wrapped around you,
as they whisper low

those sweet nothings,
telling you that you are everything
when you have felt so empty

a resurgence of half-filled cups,
rose-tinted outlooks and lovesick melodies
exchanged glances that form their own languages

and i want so badly
for a name to be honey in my mouth again,
so sweet i am afraid to open up and let it out

i crave so deeply the feeling
of being fully clothed and yet naked,
fully myself and fully in love.

and i may be a romantic,
but i don't need flowers at my door
i don't need you to tell me what your heart is for

i want the little things,
tag teaming the dishes as you tell me your day,
the rough draft of the email you need to send

( if it needs an edit, i promise to be kind )

nothing speaks of love like the mundane,
to share a life; to share even a moment
what else could be so intimate?

i want to know your middle name
or to invent, should you not already possess one
i want to have knowledge that gives fae their power

i want to know your favorite color,
so i can wear it when i'm alone
to encapsulate the meaning

i desire above all else,
to be loved
with only the best intentions

why would the world be beautiful
if every inch of it didn't deserve
to be enveloped by love?

i ponder alone
i'm listening to love songs on repeat until they tell me their stories
what is it like to be a muse? i've only ever written of others,
always the dreamer, never the subject
would i know what to do?
Emry Oct 2020
Sometimes the muses gift you with inspiration, meters tall
Sometimes they curse you with none at all.
The muse's presence can be a blessing and a curse,
But I'd still prefer that over the reverse
Maria Etre May 2020
"What is your greatest fear?" he asked.

"For words to flee" she said.
Arunav Hazarika May 2020
You don't have to be alone, to feel empty,
It is a feeling that feeds on you, ebbs your strength,
makes you vulnerable to faith.
You can be in a room full, of happy souls,
and still, the cusp of emptiness might sneak through the door,
and give you a nudge in the direction loneliness.
It is about that strange feeling, that seeks in, like mildew, or vaseline
after a wound, scratching the surface,
barely making contact with the inner skin,
and yet gripping you with pain,  and bleeds of trauma.

When you will look around, you'll see, so many people,
with bright smile on their faces, alluring eyes, the ones,
who look like fountains, beautiful ones with pure purpose.
But, the truth is many among them, are still not what you see.
The crust, the cover of souls are very happy, and yet, there are things missing inside of them.
Somebody who might wish for a kid, somebody who has jiust lost his sister, somebody who has a disease, eating on him,
snatching away his life, meant to be surged atop exuberant mountains.
People hide it so well, you wouldn't notice if you don't look closely.

The pain lives in each of them, feeding, breaking, disintegrating them.
The more they ignore it, the more it hurts.
The fact is accepting, it's a part of you, of who you are,
a fragment of your identity.
Because accepting it, makes you versatile, it makes you understandable.
And once, you are understandable, to people,
You become complete, within yourself, and you don't just barely scratch the surface now,
You go deep into understanding who you really are, and that makes you strong.
Because when that loneliness heals, it is one zeus of a feeling.
Understanding and defeating loneliness among many of us.
Arunav Hazarika Apr 2020
how would you feel,
if your soul is blown away,
by the night air, the breeze,
into unknown places,
among unknown people.
while you'd be hoping for it to return,
feeling empty, the void in you so deep
and threatening.
that it penetrates your feelings,
that hand dry with the clothes now.

and you would wait for it come back,
to fly back to you, and make you feel,
yourself again.
but you know that it won't,
because you kept it caged for so long,
in the boundaries of guilt,
that it wants freedom now,
more than ever.
a life for itself,
out of your body, that kept it,
shimmering it's glow, diminishing it's existence,
for so long, it often forgot, it's light had existed.
Jenish Jan 2020
When effulgent sun scattered his splendors in the firmament
And charming flowers shed their pure, sweet bewitching fragrance
Then I whispered an adoring adieu to my loneliness
And cherished the blossoming muses of stoup in ecstasy.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2019
~for she who will know~

the Mother of Muses came to me

on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart

we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse

to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.

all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing

see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime

We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End


11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
there is almost always a poem in the simple, where true art awaits your
sculpting...
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