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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.
background:
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!
Racheal McKnight Dec 2015
She had a canvas and a paintbrush, but the canvas was her skin and the paintbrush was a blade.
Faith Gabito Nov 2015
I gracefully begin painting a masterpiece with black and white
My fingers, the paintbrush
The piano, the canvas
Whose keys unlock a world of passion and creativity
Meandering through melancholy minor and merry majors
The keys sing melodies as my fingers dance across the canvas
Something I've learned, something that can transcend
This world of music and into the way we live
Playing music and creating music
Those are two different things
When we live life, what do we bring
Are we merely pressing white and black keys
Or are we intentionally engaging our unique hearts
Bringing color to what was lifeless, not simply playing a part
Do we live passively, or are our hearts bursting with excitement
An anticipation that the One whose Son He sent
Is going to move tremendously, is going to Open eyes for people to see
That life with Him is greater than anything the world dreams
That Only His love can satisfy the void in a soul
And that He removes skin that's old
He softens hearts that have grown cold
She painted a pretty picture,
But her story had a twist:
Her paintbrush was a razor,
Her canvas was her wrist.

She painted a pretty picture,
In a colour, a quite deep red.
After using her pretty paintbrush,
She ends up, finally dead.

She painted a pretty picture,
That faded slowly on her arm.
With blood no longer racing through her,
She no longer do any harm.

She painted a pretty picture,
But her story had a twist:
You see, her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.
KLi Jul 2015
It’s how you caressed your paint brush
Like a magic wand
which added color to that plain ground
that captured my heart
At that very moment,
I know I’m yours forever
No, not my body, nor my mind
But my soul
It’s now yours, only yours
What a wonderful person he is
I said to myself
I painted a picture of us
In my mind we’re together
I had an illusion that we have
a very promising future in coming days or sooner
My mind went wild
created stories within blinks of my eyes
You were meters away
But in my thoughts
We are talking
We’re in love
Until a woman came
Went by your side
My world was shattered
Into purely fine pieces
I fell
I broke
You’re in love
Not with me
But with her
Kaleigh O Jan 2015
Your skin is the canvas
My fingertips are the paintbrush
Every touch, every stroke, every glide upon it creates a mark
For what I am becomes what you are
And what you are becomes the purpose of me
Gracefully,
my paintbrush
moves from here
   to the
           stars.

Galaxies explode,
and recreate art.
The Septolet is a poem consisting of seven lines containing fourteen words with a break in between the two parts. Both parts deal with the same thought and create a picture.
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