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Nat Lipstadt Sep 2023
~My portrait was painted by Jackson *******~


there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and perception is only your truth.
my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum,
but signed by me as first passenger


when did I write these words?

can’t recall, though undated,
they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t,
I should have…
for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude,
a resident in my file of
“someday writs, awaiting,”
when the itch demands you will
the admixture of words and swords
that will cut a newborn reciprocity of thee and me,
an unbound bind that ties and frees us
from and by our shared senses…

today, an  inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a
fulsome scratching


the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips,
each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common
which is as it should be,
for if we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities,
each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,



the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders,
a single word drops,
of plaint, paint, blood,
a seconds blush blurred
that is the building blocks of imagery
I state is mine,
but now realizations swiftly fertilize,
the portrait is not of me,
but of me blended into thee,
and this poem,
is our composition

that hangs in each of our primary
newly re-titled,
**A Passenger, Realized
Sept 13, 2023

sunlight direct in a tall building blocks away sneaks into my room,
blinding me into awareness
SøułSurvivør Mar 2022
russet, olive hues
yellow ochre
bird's egg blue

vastness held
within a bowl
turned over earth
to heal and hold

moisture from
the morning rain
thus the painter's
eye is trained

cadmium white
a fan-like brush
sketch mare's-tail clouds
an artist's touch

far horizon
grayish blue
a woman reclines
in the ****

her form reveals
the breasting hills
her hips the mountains
hushed and still

blurs of olive cacti
the saguaro
rise like hackles

Palo Verde lie in lumps
yellow flowers
bloom in clumps

point of brush
tweaks out the trees
turn of branches
stippled leaves

small are they
to catch the light
but the moisture
loss is slight

ochre foreground
brownish stones
blue-gray shadows
light source shown

grayish purple
prickly pears
here and there

spindly with splash of red
barrel cacti nod their heads

buff highlights
saguaro flowers
I could sit and
paint for hours

there's time to write
but now I pray
look upon these
words today

they paint the desert
you will find
If only in
the poet's mind!

SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
Amanda Kay Burke Jun 2021
I paint me a smile

But today my made-up colors smudge

You can see frown visible underneath

And too distorted to hide
Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay while
-Adam Levine (from Maroon 5)
Raven Feels May 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I don't even know if I am her anymore:\

I am silenced beneath
dropped to rage in peace

I am aloned born
crafted head lonely worn

I am abused again
manipulated in blind to the said

I am saddened depressed
repressed too much till death

I am nightened a lot
mooned in the soul shot

I am painted black
darkened no rainbows seen back

I am cried tears
abandoned for good of fear

selfish no one cares
to see how human small I mere

I'm Free"
Such a con man convincing me that I was so beautiful, his saving grace,
With his hands, he painted my face,
With make-up I would have to retrace,
I would dress pretty just for him,
I kept my body fit and trim,
Though for real, I didn't know it was a messed up,
I tried to be his best partner, his loving wife.
Shocked and and scared every time,
like it was something new, that just began,
He'd beg my forgiveness again & again,
how I always forgave, forgetting all the prior distress,
just to continue day after day.

Pulling my hair, using your fist to paint my lips the color of crimson red, fearing each time I'd die.
It even happened when you weren't full of whiskey,
I'd have moments of reality,
knowing I had to get out for my babies,
You had everyone convinced you were innocent,
I was the one that suffered your vengeance,
like an illusion, everyone took your side,
they all believed every time you lied.

I have no more shame, no more fear,
Never again
Erian Rose Dec 2020
Leave me
Late-night dreaming
On rose-painted canvases
And grayscale prints,
While the rain
Hums a tune of
I'm thinking of creating a non-profit literary journal to give y'all a platform to submit poems for publications.  Would you guys be down for that?
Maja Oct 2020
I was born a blank canvas

Now I’ve been painted with scars

Scars in my mind

Scars in my heart

I was born an empty sheet

Now I’m broken art
I was born, empty like space
meant to be filled with stars
Instead, my skin is littered with scars.
Àŧùl Sep 2020
My past is so blotted & blotched,
Yet, I am living this moment.

Painful or not, it'd hardly matter,
Any luck with life, I miss daily,
I miss all my possibilities,
None have I achieved,
To time I put my ode,
Ever so desperately,
Dying will be easier.

Perhaps, I'd wait until my parents,
And then I shall embrace her,
Saying, “Sorry, I kept you longing,”
This time there is no guardian angel.
My HP Poem #1889
©Atul Kaushal
random splashes of cerise
were painted in the eve sky
they predicted a morrow
of beaming sunshine
Cardboard-Jones Jan 2020
This world conforms to me.
Landscapes bursting with hues,
You can almost smell the colors.
Benevolent to my wounds.
Distorted shapes and figures
Blending with one another.
My solace,
My sanctum,
My peace.

My worries,
My pain,
My memories,
None are welcome.
An escape from all that wishes to harm me.
One stroke of my finger
And all my imagination appears.

I hear familiar voices from the outside.
“Come back,” they shout,
“Come back to reality
And face what troubles you.”

“No,” I whisper,
“I think I’ll stay.”
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