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Seema Jul 2017
Paint me red
Or paint me black
Over my face
And around my neck
Make me look ugly
On the worn canvas
Tint my eyes
Scribble my lips
Show your hatred
Show your anger
Spill those lies
Until you can't recognise
The painted portrait
Of me,
my love...

©sim
Simon B Jul 2017
You're the cement on which I walk
and the language that I talk.
You're the chalk in the dark tunnels
and the door on which I knock.
You're my summer breeze
and my winter solstice.
You're the smile on my face
and my depression soulless.
You're an empty canvas
And I'm A broken paintbrush
You're waves crashing against the shore
and I'm an impatient surfer real bored.
You couldn't care less
and I sacrificed more.
I lost three loves to you
and I love you squared.
I love you, and it's not fair
And you're my everything anywhere.
denise Jul 2017
I will paint these scars,
Silver and Gold.
For these are the wars,
With stories untold.
something i wrote a little while back
loggi Jul 2017
Condition me
And tell me the songs,
The rhymes,
The fables
Of display
To show me your greatness
In every single way.

Make me stand up
And salute you
Every single day,
Pin me up
And make me your brand
To brag about your arsenal
And send your bombs away.

Paint me your image,
A one I was never sure
If I wanted,
And blind me in flashes
Of gaudy light.

When the display is gone,
Do I agree with what you done,
And is it all right?
RED
I took my canvas out,
Cleaned dusty brushes,
Colours spread on desk,
I sketched his brown eyes,
His lips that I once kissed,
His face so innocent,
And I painted it RED.
Love looked so innocent until it turned her life upside down.
Sombro Jun 2017
On a painting
I know
No white will be as pure
As the page left untouched
And no smudge as dark
As that scribbled in too heavy-handedly
For a need of perfection
Eiram N Jun 2017
She’s not a girl you’d pass by on the street
and spare a second fleeting thought,
Nor living within the glossy magazines you read
whose looks you’ve always greatly sought,
She’s a string in a resounding symphony
a note lost in sweet sound of melody
She’s a dab of paint on the canvas
but she doesn’t apologise—she forms the picture,
She’s a tiny flower plucked from the earth
       but she blooms for all she’s worth.
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