umm e rubab Jul 5
She is far gone,
But her spirit will never die
The painter has loved her even after the sigh,
Beauty remained within his heart
Which never let their souls apart,
He painted her on the canvas with the feather
Which could narrate her even better,
From the strokes he painted a smile
That always take him away in the heaven for a while,
A smile on her pale face
Turns everything into grace,
With glitter on her lashes
That now burning him into ashes,
All the beauty that lies within her eyes
Always leave him mesmerized,
Her lips are stained with the colors of her hair
Leads him to find her everywhere,
Lips, that makes him weak
Weakness that exploited his chest,
He felt her every curve
Exposing her from all the rest,
Love utterly made him fly
Because she can never die.
Sunny Gulati Jul 3
A maverick personality with

a bohemian style of dressing.

A flowing beard and a hat worn obliquely.

He was a painter par excellence,

exhibiting his piece de resistance.

His painting was to any eye a treat

but a part of it was left incomplete.

Left inadvertently or maybe intentionally.

My curiosity got the better of me

and prompted me to inquire brusquely.

The artist answered rather politely,

“I leave it incomplete to stay away from conceit.

To avoid being coloured with it vainly.

And prevent my ego from craving more than what my skill can achieve.

The incomplete painting now made sense to me as I continued to  marvel at his masterpiece.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 19
I can't cope when my
page stares at me
White, soft and gentle
Empty, dull, lifeless
And the burden to fill it
becomes so heavy
My quill in the inkpot
Pen and pencils, unused
And I feel so flustered
when I am unable to
tell my truth

Words I think wither
Creative juices dry
My mind becomes a
disastrous chorus line
And I feel so trapped,
unable to talk with
my pen

I'm taken back to the
days where my soul
was heavy with pain
That pain was soothed
when I stained my page
with words because now
I had a medium and I
could go forth, confident
and free

When I stare at the canvas
I remember that little girl
who found a way to be
seen and still be unseen
That's the feeling I have,
was born with, that gives
me so much comfort
I can protect myself and
guard myself from how
the world wants girls to
be seen and how I don't
fit the mold

I find I feel more at peace
to be part of that world
that draws it breath
from the words
on my tongue
drawn onto the
canvas by my
right hand

But the words, I find hard
to pour on the page in new
verses. The page that is
empty and free, is
somehow grinning
at my misery
Writer's block sucks.
Seriously. I have never been so flustered. I hate it because it reminds me of when I was little. Long in short, I did NOT have a happy childhood. The cause - the man my mother married. The man who was no father to me or my siblings. Long in short, it physically hurts when I can't write. I end up emotionally and mentally strained, and my body aches. Like I feel the years of aching pain pulse through my body.
It may sound dramatic but it's true. This is how I feel.
I can only ever right how I feel, even when I find it hard to really articulate it.
Anyway, thank you everyone for 92 followers!
Be back soon!
Lyn xxx
You're a painter with brush
My face isn't worth painting

You're a writer with pen
My story isn't worth writing

You're a poet with soul
My umbra isn't worth rhyming

You're a photographer with camera
My appearance isn't worth capturing

You're a director with 35mm
My action isn't worth watching

You're the artist
I am the creative block
Daidaiiro Jun 9
Paint on the floor
Sketches on the door
Pastel chalk dust everywhere;
A painter lives here
He stays up late
He loses weight
His paintings so deep
He barely eats or sleep

Poor painter is stressed
With his work obsessed
But doesn't get anything done
Inspiration is gone
It hurts to the core
He can't take it anymore
Throws the brush on his bed
Which stains the sheets red
She Writes May 17
Every brush needs a painter
Every song needs a dancer
Every heart needs a breaker

And for her
You were all three
Emily May 14
Sea
Like a drowning painter
In the treacherous depths
With oil paints, thick and rolling,
On a soggy canvas
Painting the sea
Your presence swells
And I paint you
Drowning me
under my feets the frozen grass,
i walked bare footed but got a scar.

i stopped and looked at it
but then i started walking again.

That scar bled myself away;
i kept walking and didn't stopped.

As, that way was towards my destiny.
Many walls i crossed and left behind.

Many broken wishes were left behind,
to gain something, i have to try.

To do what i was here to do,
to become "me", ' i have to do',
'what i am destined to do'.

'me, me and me is not the dream'
'to be me is what i want to be! '
Peter Balkus Apr 28
I would't mind
being Monetised.
I love Monet.
Peter Balkus Apr 28
She wants me
to paint her,
she calls me
her little Vermeer.
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