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My Painter
My painter has painted me with all love and affection
But I do not know why I still aspire for every perfection
At times in my disappointment, despair and dejection
I think what ever I am, that I am, no point of correction

I know with the passage of time I deteriorate ,I will fade
I am in transit being transitory bear pain and to degrade
Back to all my original colors from which I was but made
Still I maintain it is not me but will of the painter to wade

My master has given me all the colors of life to be colorful
He has ingrained in me all vices and virtues of sweet angel
I remained on wall of fate with pain and pleasure push, pull
But I am in complete servitude to obey the will as a real bull

At times I just do complain in a light vein about my existence
At very many occasions I feel fragrance of colors as my essence
Some colors have gone down light which were really dense
But I have all my doubts about my wit intelligence and sense


Co Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
You have wasted my precious time and words
On a useless discussion resulting but nothing
If foolishness is at top then why to be wizards
Tricky girl you are master of but sheer acting

So you teach me what is painting what is not
Listen  I am not student but the master of art
I know what all you carry in your ***** knot
If you so desire I can paint that real hot part

So do not take  chance for the sake of chance
I will now paint what I do want to really paint
Be remain busy in your promotion of stance
And I will paint to show you the effort of saint

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
ryn Oct 2016
The crescent moon be my perch.
        A bough from which I extend my arm.
Careful fingers grasp my brush...
And with it I shall fill the void
with the universe.                

               The crescent moon be my hammock.
Upon which I lean fully into,
to seek restful recluse.                
Should my body start to buckle...
        From the heavy hopes of wistful eyes.

   The crescent moon be my anchor.
From which I draw                
my inspiration and strength.
                   She would cradle and sway me gentle...
      When wilting hearts spill unto me
the callous wiles of the world.    

The crescent moon be my well.        
A fount through which my palette        
remains full with an                                 
abundant array of silvery white.        

Just so...                                 
I could conjure for others,
       what their hearts so desire.

Just so...                      
I could grant them       
             needed solace and tranquillity.

Just so...                 
                          I could infinitely paint for them
the stars...
My sweetheart let me dive in your green eyes to get treasure
Allow your beauty to be more gracious to seek real pleasure
I am totally lost in your graces, don't know how to measure
After being intoxicated by love entire world seems just blur
I am withered stem you my love is like an evergreen flower
How cant my life I will  be able to forget your taste and flavor
Beauty is a beautiful mistake while love is a violent blunder
hat a journey of love is from burning desert to shaddy bower
My sweetheart you carry along beautiful image let me capture
Love has its own grandeur beauty has its own gorgeous glamor
You are canvas of my love my beauty and I am your painter
You are my present you were my past you will be my future

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Aaron LaLux Aug 2016
Making Broken Patterns

We’re all broken,
that’s why everyone’s searching for a fix,
we’re all hoping,
for a reason to believe well maybe this is it.

Here I sit,
alone again,
as are you,
I sense a trend,

a pattern,
of minor disasters,
mixed with,
major factors,
combines to,
define you,
into whatever comes after,

all the world’s a stage,
all of us are actors,
in The Book of Life until we turn the page,
and enter into the next chapter,

laughter,
from the voyeuristic crowd,
soundtrack,
from the orchestra of sounds,

sounds,
a lot like life right,
now,
we are all in the limelight,

our scars are watercolors,
our feelings are ink,
our attitude is honest art,
we use pain and bliss to paint the masterpiece,

a distaster we,
are for sure none of us are pure,
as times moves faster we,
see that none of this is sure,

sure,

we’re all broken,
that’s why everyone’s searching for a fix,
we’re all hoping,
for a reason to believe well maybe this is it…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
No notes...
R M Jun 2016
I'm a puzzle with no corner pieces-
complicated and frustrating
but breathtaking when finally put
together.
Faded blue jeans, bare feet, and
a mass of wild curls.
Southern accented blunt truths
and sharp accessing eyes
that have forgotten their true color.
Messy scribbled words on heaps
of discarded paper
and gorgeous journals with empty
pages.
I am a piano player in private
and a singer in the shower.
Paint splattered hands
and a girl finding beauty
behind a lens.
A quiet thinker
with a head full of screaming
thoughts.
I am a lovely mess of
contradictions.
Austin Bauer May 2016
We discovered a master painter
who hand paints intricate flowers
one-by-one to create
a picturesque landscape painting.

In his paintings, a cardinal sits
resting upon a tree branch,
and a monarch butterfly marks
His signature in each painting.

Indian blankets, greenthreads,
brown bitterweed, and Texas thistle -
all vitally important to his paintings.
Therefore, he paints bees to pollinate

the flowers, transferring life-giving
pollen from anther to stigma.
Yes, the master painter places
all of this in his painting with
beautiful intention.
Lunar Apr 2016
we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.

three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.

him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.

hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.

him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.

we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.

after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.

sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.
wjh, you, and loving you, is the definition of my art.
you and only you are the meaning of my muse.
you and just you are the artist
Dhaye Margaux Mar 2016
I am the girl in this forest but you can't see me as human
You are used to call me a different cognomen
I have been trying so hard just to make you see
But you still find a dark and scary creature in me

Those dead bodies buried six feet below the ground
I hear their souls calling,  I hear the gloomy sound
Into your cruel minds,  I was the criminal
You cleave into my name the darkest pin of betrayal

I wonder why you always see me as a dark creature
And you only look at my color as my valid nature
Look at the moon that shines brightly over me
She wants to show who I am and yet you cannot see

I am the girl in this forest, I am a human like you
It is your mind,  it is your eyes that don't see what is true
Your mind thinks all the darkness,  your eyes  see what's skin deep
You paint in me an image that will make me mourn and weep

I'm just a girl in this forest who cease myself to live as free
For no matter what I do, a scary crow is what you see.
Beauty is in the eye of beholder.
In this cruel world, the critical society is a painter.

Cognomen: any name,  especially a nickname
Macy Opsima Mar 2016
The wall that seperates our home
Was as thick as the callouses on my fingers,
But I could hear every brush stroke
That he made on his canvas.

With every flick of his wrist,
a new image begins to build.
With every breathe that he took,
breaths of love and passion.

I can see in high quality definition
The looks on the spectator's faces,
As they admire your colors
On the wall beside the colors you once admired.
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