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Elizabeth Sep 27
I am from yellow houses. The ones with green shutters and vines growing along the sides. I am from rainy weather with umbrellas to big to hold in my small, weary, hands. I am what I am. I am unloveable and complex but loved and solved at the same time. I am an open book but one that remains closed until someone comes along and open me, reading each page, some colorful and others just blank. I am a story worth telling and an experience worth sharing, some good, others not so much. I am from sunflowers and freshly cut grass. I am a blank page but I can easily be marked. I am what I am. I am from linen sheets and warm laundry. I hope to be less of a burden than I am. The youngest child, the one parents hope turn out alright. I am from tears and broken hearts. But I am also from sunshine and glasses half full. I am artwork that hangs on walls and painted in murals, ones you can’t glance at just once. I am from cold winters and warm homes during them. I am what I am. I am from clothing too big to fit my tiny body and fresh apples too small to fit my empty stomach. I am what I am.
Where I’m from
Nylee Sep 27
Art speaks words unheard,
   The feelings paints pictures unseen.
       It is beauty
and drastic ideas combined
      A mix of pleasure and pain
      All experiences add a different taste
        Rough edges and smoothness entwined.
Touch it and fall into a dream
The artist lived and lives within
.
I will sing a poem for you
I can summon the rain and rainbows too.

I will paint on canvas for you
I let the portrait talk and be obedient too.

I will capture sunsets for you
I will turn red into purple like how I used to.
everything for you
Poetic T Sep 14
My looks were never a van-gogh.

                   But more the


abstract version of a never
                     published child.

I'm not pretty, never said I was.

But my colours
                     vibrant..

Hopefully I may rub off
                                       on you.

Looks aren't everything you know .
Fayez Sep 13
I walk,
A thick brush
Paints my way

I cross,
An inked bridge
My feet black

I stop,
The black brush
Paints a crossroad

I sit,
days pass by
As I ponder

I decide,
A blackened path
Walking on ink

I wait,
The brush draws
More diverging paths

I reach,
Holding the brush
Snapping in half

I look,
My body covered
In black ink

I walk,
My body blackened
My path white
A person and the brush that paints their path. An ode to fate, destiny, and the premise things happening for a reason.
Sometimes breaking the brush will make us lost and 'blackened', but atleast we will be free
Jay M Sep 12
All are dancing slowly
This masquerade
A gala
Yet
All is in great discord
Among the orchestra
One is out of tune
Yet
None seem to care
To hear the broken melody
See the chip in the stone

Cover it up
With a little paint
None shall tell
Besides the meek little pup
Soon it shall faint
One shall yell
While the rest
Ring, ring, ring the bell
Dancing in discord
To the broken melody

Pulling out a flask
‘Neath the rows
Folk chatter and ask,
“Isn’t something off?”
While the other throws,
“Neigh!” then one does quaff

Shine a light
Alone the floor
Hold one tight
For one shall sing no more
Grasp it
So one may not fall
That she would not permit
Not a’tall

Sing, sober dream
Whisper your whims
Through a beam
On a limb
The lullaby
Child doth cry
Sing, sober dream
Sing, sing,
For ‘tall must end
One day.

- Jay M
September 12th, 2019
aih Sep 9
Paint me a picture
Of long ago
When the moon stood still
And dreams came true.
Creator Sun Sep 3
A wisp of a breath, a flick of a brush,
The canvas begins to be filled with colour.
A hint of violet, a dab of vermillion,
It seems that she is painting a girlish parlour.

A red drips slowly down her wrist,
As she wipes away at her work.
The foggy glass seems to offer some relief,
Against the cold harsh winter.

The girl stands on her frost-bitten toes
And look upon the scene with wonder.
As the tantalizing warmth appear against her fingers
She can't help but ponder.

Why are some people in the parlour
But others look from the outside in?
For she can't help but question
What is deep within.
This scene is depicting a girl looking into a parlour in the midst of winter. She does not understand why she cannot go in even though she is freezing. The concept of social hierarchy seems like a world away yet she tries her hardest to get a peak of what is going on inside. She had cut herself on some patches of the uneven glass and her lips were turning blue from the frost-bite. I would like to think that this takes place in Russia.
Grace Haak Sep 2
Eyes so blue
An impossible hue
I wonder what it would be like
To sit down and paint you.
Shining auburn hair
Wait! Go stand over there
The light reflects your eyes
With their penetrating stare.
Skin so tan
Sweat glistening when you ran
Sunlight, please stay
If you can.
Smile so bright
I could capture it at night
Because it gleams all the time
With a white blinding light.
Perfect and exhausting in every way
These thoughts ruin me every single day
I wonder, I wonder,
If you knew, what would you say?
Grace Haak Sep 1
Drip
Drop
The golden sun
A burning coin
A flaming pendant
A sun of god
Painted bright
Bleeding into the sky
Sinking down
I watch it die.
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