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archives Jun 2016
you paint over your freckles
that you used to like
before everyone else decided
you didn't
Em Jan 2017
stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.
i'm really not sure if this is nonsense, but it comes from the heart and that must count for something
bouclejour Jan 2017
I came home exhausted and road weary and
tried my key in the door but it wouldn’t turn.

The locks had changed.
I noticed then
that the trim around the windows was green instead of yellow.
Through the glass
I saw the rooms scattered with unfamiliar furniture.

I wondered if I was dreaming but I wasn’t.
I had, in fact, just awoken from a sleep of many years.

I knew then that I would never come home again.

So it was with her.
Dear kid you are the picture
of heart on well worn sleeve.
You oiled every wave of
raw emotion
and etched it on your own face.

Each time you draw a tear
the cascades fill your sorry eyes.
Far cry from masterpiece,
or symphony
but your truest portrait caught in time.
Gaius Normanyo Jan 2017
I love when the sun just breaks through morning storm clouds
Like His artful hand painting the darkness away
Or a father turning on the lights
“You see, the bogeymen are gone."
6:55 AM, 1/13/17
Scarlet Niamh Jan 2017
I do not understand how they do it,
having so much thought that they invented
an entire universe of elements,
components and small fixtures of greater
workings. Those incredible, beautiful
scientists, with their steam-crimped hair and curious
eyes; the wonderfully inventive mathematicians
who ponder over all knowledge in order
to realise something new - that is what
true beauty is. Chemistry, physics, biology
and maths are their own art forms, and what they
seek to create is more beautiful than my
words and paintbrush can ever dream.
~~ May all of the jagged equations in the world flow together to create an artwork more beautiful than perception itself. ~~
Lily Taylor Jan 2017
An artist in theme,
A set artist indeed
To go rue the outside world
For its wall space and scene.
She will walk the land;
But, as it never goes as planned
She stops by for drinks at pubs
And sees some nice spots on the way.
Oh little Lily, you will rue the day.
Painting
Poems
Lady Bird Jan 2017
like paint through bristles
ink is spilling out
of my overfilled pen
bleeding onto the paper

scribbling notes
in a usual cliche
curling my words
hoping they stay

for a weaver of words
I am without any
I couldn't describe
snatches of my sanity

writing is an extension
of the mind and
I am out of mine
AD Snail Dec 2016
I cannot dare look down at the marks;
That I have casted upon myself.
I am a canvas with paint splatters of abuse,
I mistreated the use of my brushes.

I am starting to become careless with the color red,
The red paint is everywhere now showing my dread.

I have committed a crime against thee canvas,
Now I am becoming anxious with taking my chances.
It would be best if I was handless,
Then I wouldn’t be listening to this sadness and destroying my precious canvas.

I am a bandit,
Taking and letting things slip away.

Slowly I am losing this art battle,
But I am starting to not become a sore loser.
Worry is no longer getting the best of me,
I shall not be afraid of the blackness of defeat.

Wish me the best.
Applause me for my wonderful art work,
Because I gave you exactly what you wanted,
Can’t you see? I followed your exact instructions.

I have a lifeless canvas, that is white as a sheet,
Though I colored all over it.
This plainness came with some practice.

Oh I am so sorry, my canvas just landed on the hard floor,
I seemed I couldn’t appreciated it enough,
So now I must bid you a due now.
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