it's hard not to notice
when your face lights up
alone in a crowd
i listen to
the sounds of the building
the slow drip of paint
the screams of the wind
all traces of sadness disappear
as your my distraction
from the pain
which once consumed me
if i could fly
i wouldn't because my home is
right here
next to you, pure bliss
which i lean back to admire but
nobody knows
nobody sees
my need for art
but i can't complain when i have
a piece of you
as you complete me
there was a time i felt
insecure
numb
i couldn't feel anything
i felt helpless
heavy with exhaustion
i slept
i remember the tired
then the sound of life followed
behind you
it wasn't much but it was
all i needed then
this poem was an attempt of me to do something different, i tried to write something using only song titles
You said the world was full of all kind of colors.
And that I was the perfect canvas.
I believed you were the best artist.
But the only colors you used were black and red.
Paint me a song
make it soft, and sweet
passion, not short, but long
thus making me, complete

Craft me a statue
love in bronze or clay
I'll gaze at it, long and hard
each and every day

Align for me your words
a poem from your heart
reminding me, eternally
you, my only art
The products can't compare to the artist's love placed in them, but sometimes, they manage to reflect it, perfectly :)
Dess Ander Feb 12
I have papercuts
Tearing up scraps of paper
Printed photographs
Of memories that should be in sepia
I didn't know my heart could be shredded
And my soul in pieces
As the loneliness creeps in
Overtaking the mould in the cracks
My head in my hands
Shoulders to the floor
As my tears paint the cracked lino
Cursing you with every expletive...

But you did make breakfast
Every weekend and brought it to me
Those lazy days when you would cuddle me
Then you did hold my hand
When Mom was passing
Your words building me up
The way you built that treehouse...

I don't want to forget the old you
Because maybe, just maybe,
He might return.
sarah Feb 11
i paint with words
a create pictures that never fade

so let me immortalize you
in strokes of ink and tears

let me sit you down and describe
how my heart sings
when i look at you

how my hands tremble with fear
because how can i capture the essence of you
when there have never been words
powerful enough?

if all my love could fit into a glance
i'd wash my hands of this
and simply look at you

but i will write until forever

until my hands steady
and i can read out loud
what you are to me
As Baudelaire said:
"Be always drunk,
on wine, poetry, virtue"
or what-have-you.
And after sobering
from aurelian dawns
and whiskey-drenched stars,
I find solace in tipsiness
on irreverent magic eyes
from the bottom of a margarita
or a paint-stained enigma
from behind a glass of red.
Slowly, carefully, languidly,
Quietly.
Flirting with possibilities
of being drunk once more.
Scarlet M Feb 8
She is a blank slate
pleasant sight of purity,
always caught in mire artistic situations,
attracts nothing but cold, grimed,
treacherous hearts,
somehow, always ends up in tainted hands,
to painters who were not meant
to hold a brush.
He has cerulean eyes that I despise

And Martin Senour Paints' white ibis hair.

He is a skyscrappppeerrrr.

But God dammit, I like looking up at that body over there.
WRR-
Expression
trapped in the tension stoked
by warmongers
existing in cages.

A violent history
conquerors unbind
their twisted sails.
Thrashing arms
knot the chains.

Lost in a manifesto
to change.
Once yar with bounties
from the far and away.

Overcome they’ve tossed their lily petals into the pressing foam—
to watch churlish eyes expand.
A global reckoning implodes.

Diego and poor Frida
peer deeply in
their brush strokes ripe with liquid passion.

(Jaded like the pouting mouth
of one promiscuous glance too many.)

The rouge bleeds
rivulets along a canvas edge
framed by illicit
visitors.
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