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Xaela San Jan 2019
Her paintbrush is a blessing, a tool for her bleeding heart to be painted on the empty canvas.
Rowan Elizabeth Dec 2018
the way she swayed and leaped
embodying the strokes of a paintbrush
dancing across the canvas
a solid blur of pink and white

every twirl was breathless
every plié like silk

in that moment,
she existed as the most elegant force alive

every move commanded attention
she was grace
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
The sun is with the paintbrush
ambling down the river blue.
See, your eyes are the mirror
in between the earth and sky duo.

Bask in the open air theatre
eye on spread out with colour.
Indulge in, with a slice of summer
you got the brightest star, the light
on your canvas, you got the clue.
Now draw your way through
art yours in between the two!
A poem from my upcoming book Qun: Love is Unconditional
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Wide open are your arms  
the sun is a small paintbrush  
every daybreak it draws  
exposes you as new as ever!  
The surges in the billows  
blow out swimming clouds  
across the globe.  
No they don’t splash out to  
the starry thrillers on the sky  
they all are a dwarf bunch  
draws down to you kind Moon:  
Down to earth on the ground  
spares the heap for all
for the day for the noon.  
Then you are there too
far afar, where is nothing
but you the lotus in bloom
on uncharted water.  
Who can describe it better  
everyone is lost for words!
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
It’s a coloured and shaded broad daylight.
Bring me my hourglass, my paintbrush.
Keeping a timepiece, how soon my brush
strokes become finer it is not the task.
Try once more, strike a fine chord in time,
ever ticking but doesn't make a sound!  

Let’s read the small prints, the shadow lines
on the pitch of the slit sun shines!
A dark spot in the light, some dotted lines
on a blank paper, however witty you might
describe it, count on the tweeting birds
short and cute, singing in the open air.

Light and dark the two tallies, ins and outs.
The times come and go, flowing fine.
For now, let’s take a look inside.
Tint and shade nor tone them now.
Zoom in and out, just watch them as they are.

This cool sleek shade on the sunny slate
is it a shadow, or some quivering curly hairs
or are these reflections of flocking clouds,
diligent sea eyeing deep down on the ground?
Read the small prints, shadows in the daylight,
before the show is wrapped up.
And down the evening pool, the sun
parts away with the black swan.
han Dec 2017
I’ve looked up in awe
my heart nearly bursts
it’s beating so rapidly
because this is beauty
& I get to witness it
I am humbled
by the beauty
I am so small
& so are my worries
This gives me inspiration
The same hand
which sculpted these mountains
and painted these stars
Will carry me through
I am so happy to be alive
& to have a purpose
December 8th~han
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
Don’t go, hold onto your colour bowl,
never lose your paintbrush,
not even at the twilight.
Someone's smiling on earth.
It can’t hide forever.

Maybe hidden but not far—
could be only behind a lock of hair.
Black is not only black.
Look beyond, it could be all fair.

Gently raised and softly lit
on the moonlight’s field
These forever-calm shady groves,
piled up on the night's pitch-black scene,
are ahead of the curve in silent reading.

Behind these out of the box line-ups
by the middle, the stage composed
for the thrillers that rock and roll
An incense is still burning
the sundown burns down into ashes,
is still breathing, smelling the scent.
Yesterday will revive and comes tomorrow
keep an eye for a moment or two.

Follow the glow, gazing in the night
and slip into the grove
for they are in the know
is a veiled beauty, earth’s silhouette,
drawn down to the moon!

All the starry fireflies on the stardom
love to drop down and join the moths
Around this tucked away silhouette,
charming beauty down the moon.
Only on the earthen ground it grooms!
Noah A Baker Mar 2016
So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.

Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.

Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".  
To map a new demographic before our deaths.

If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.

And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.

We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.

The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.
we always struggle with pursuing what we want to do due to us believing we can't, or lack of resources, that we don't have what it takes, etc. And that's more or less fear making you think that. Once you let go of the fear in your head you can chase your dreams and passions. Once you realize that it's just a mental block, and you remove it, the world is yours to do what you want. Enjoy!
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