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Atlas Dec 2016
It's never black and white or gray.
It's more of a ugly brown.
My thoughts are like a painters palette
or a house that's burning down.
my mind is all over the place...i contradict myself a lot. its getting worse lately.
ktarrpropaganda Dec 2016
Me sitting in a chair with my usual poor posture
-we'll call this rest.

Behind me, a beautiful white ****** canvas
-we'll call this potential.

A shotgun loaded with paintbrushes
-we'll call this the medium.

Barrel in my mouth, the trigger clicks, then
  BOOM   
-we'll call this expression.

Look past my limp soulless body to the now finished canvas. What do you think?
-we'll call this interpretation.

The reds are deep and the blues are true; little chunks of grey matter
-we'll call this promise.

However, it all dries black in the end    
-we'll call this accurate.  

Me still alive in my chair staring at the wall. Pen in my mouth. Ink in my teeth
-we'll call this gnashing insignificance.
I want to die often but tend to end up living instead.
i'll paint the landscape, curves and all
from the valleys to the rolling hills
i'll paint your landscape, peaceful still
as you allow my roaming brush to crawl
i'll paint your landscape, soft and slow
your canvas years to feel my brush
with every stroke your skin is flush
your pulse quickens and paint begins to flow
to paint the landscape i see in my dreams
the paint flows forth and falls into the seams
i'll close my eyes and let my mind run free
'til finally the landscape is as it should be
this landscape, flawed, is perfect as can be
there's beauty here as far as the eye can see
Adelaide London Dec 2016
Artist
That’s what you said you were.

But are you really?

Coming to my doorstep with the promise of blues
And reds
And all shades of purple.
With your paintbrushes
Set and new.
You said every stroke
Was me and unique
That every curve was
Drawn
and accentuated
to perfection.

Unware was I to what you were going to steal…

Because what you left me with was raw
Blacks
and reds
in crisscrosses
and arms
legs and
hearts torn apart
with bitter irony.
Every stroke
was inevitable
and laced with
the real scent
of horror.

I was the canvas.
But did that make me a work of art?
When the picture someone paints is nothing like what they made it out to be.
We Are Stories Nov 2016
well we can sit inside the sun for days
growing hungry, foaming at the mouth
like the red will gloss over our lips
cooling the flames bursting from our eyelids-
stare in silence waiting for bad dreams
hoping old ghost are familiar faces to greet
like
black plagues coughed up in disease
watching our skin disintegrate into the bone and wash out to the sea-
and i could sit and wait for the fire to spread
bursting through your blood vessels again and again
until your eyes run black,
how much longer until the end
i've waited for this moment long before it even began!

-i could watch this world crash and burn before i lift a finger
i've waited so long to watch us fall apart, watch the taste linger-

if this is the start of the end then lets end
the small talk telling us to say we're old friends
because if i could i would cut you off from all this pretend
and imagine a world where there's no more to bend!
pluck!
out!
my!
eyes!
i want to forget!
the voice comes around to let my thoughts grow sound!
if there's anyway to start, then lets begin!

-i'll wait inside your closed closet doors
hoping that when i come out, you'll be nothing more-
KB Nov 2016
I am what you’re alive for, and I’ll let you start over,
And over again, before the last chance you have is done.
My name is life; though it’s not always fun.
I live in your veins and breathe in your heart,
My name is passion, and I am very smart.
You were born to use me,
To live by me,
And to inhale and exhale me.
My name is love.
You can’t run away from passion, life, or love
But this might inspire you to bring out what’s underneath to above,
To let your inner Van Gogh out or maybe, just your soul.
Pleasing anything and everything but you,
They made it your ultimate life goal.
You may still think that’s exactly what you want.
Engineers, lawyers, doctors with crazy fonts.
But you come to think that maybe that’s not for everyone…
And for that, they all make fun.
But maybe, you’re good for something that doesn’t need you
To memorize formulas, letters, numbers, symbols alike, it’s true!
Maybe you, need to be memorizing shapes, lines, colours, and words that rhyme.
Despite the way no one else has your kind of flow, it isn’t a crime.
Don’t worry about judges or surgeons, with their fancy titles and big pay,
They have their own light, their own great ways.
If you’re better with a paintbrush, then stroke away, or splash, or stipple.
Anything to show them that art is not that simple.
Its takes courage to speak out what the world craves to be said,
If one doesn’t write books or poems, there’s nothing that will be left to be read,
And children rely on stories, it’s what keeps them innocent.
It also keeps the rest of us wide awake and vigilant.
So the world bursts at the seams,
With people aching to fulfill their vibrant dreams,
Of being the ones who can finally fly; oh so very high.
The world is bursting at the seams,
With people craving to feel the colours in ungrouped teams,
That pop and crackle and spark when touched.
Turn into stardust and glitter but in the hands, are tightly clutched.
But there might be a need of people,
Who love dandelions more than roses,
Who stand strong, even as every door closes.
Who play with ice rather than fire,
Who from their risk takings, would never retire.
And who rather they feel the softness of the sand
When the wind blows it around on the beach in their hands,
Than the blankets that they sleep on.
Who look to clean the chessboard of their enemy’s pawns.
But what we see is mainly what we hope to find,
And if we look at life with love we can find it to be amiable and kind,
One can achieve their goals if they let go of the headaches for a second.
Impossibilities should never be counted, thought of, or reckoned.
So breathe; you don’t have much left of your fast travelling time line.
Recite; you don’t have much air left but your voice is just so fine.
Write and your fingertips will never stop screaming,
Just like if you run, you will never stop beaming,
Never hitting the pavement with the steps of wraith.
And if you can feel... then you will always keep close faith.
You have not badly slipped, or played the wrong note.
Because even in the midst of beautiful gardens,
Weeds were never remote.
And then you walk through the streets of love.
Hand in hand with a culture fitting you like a glove,
As the smoke draws you in a feeling not unfit;
Feelings your heart clenches; at least you can hold it.
Some have lost this rare, valued treasure,
In the waters of functions and formulas, always measured.
So never swim with them if you are one to tight line,
At the end of your life you can say, “This life is mine.”
Always one to dream, never one to follow
Never let them tell you the mind is hollow
Always experiment, don’t be the child of a shadow.
And they put art at the lowest hierarchies,
Displacing the solution to locks on creativity.
Saying art is nothing but they don’t know where we’d be
Had shapes not evolved and paintbrushes never
Met paint and gave birth to an image you can see.
That you mixed and threw together, you’re clever,
No canvas should ever be empty,
Odd reasons say still… there are plenty.
And only an artist can solve that problem.
Breathing life into objects, one can make into an emblem.
So now what you do without math, science, or neither?
Yeh… I wouldn’t give up either.
Sydney Ann Nov 2016
I am the painting, but if he thinks he has all the brushes he is mistaken
I feel him shifting
Paint strokes drifting
little does he know
but I'll never dare tell him I am letting go.
I prepare myself for what drifts on the horizon
The salty wind                 blowing                 through blue skies, and
and god,
I feel ourselves sliding so askew
Here I go, painting myself anew.
Maria Imran Nov 2016
A walk down a memory lane
Enough for me to recall what you were,
What you still are now: a flirt.
A poet singing lies
An artist hiding blood blots behind red brush strokes
A man playing with hearts,
And never finding peace in his sleep.
Diána Bósa Nov 2016
I want to exile
from this still-life (though it is
still life), but I found

so hard even my
own motion within those stiff,
immobile patterns

of living... How knows?
Maybe there is no rise and
fall, but the gaudy

illusion; the cold,
inevitable stasis
of dried paint spots on a wall.
Emma Oct 2016
A paintbrush makes lines
thin and long, connecting
it's almost like a song
a melody of art, as the paintbrush whisks away
people crowd around her, asking what it is
she ignores them, just carrying on with her art, making beautiful colors from her fingertips
nobody else can feel the way she does, when painting,
you feel in another world, a land of imagination
when it is finished, they are in shock, awe
as all the lines exploded into one amazing piece, she is now a work of art
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