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Living life is a painting scheme,
Creating colors to cover up the blanks,
Trying our best to break away.
We re-saturate,
The bleak shades of our face,
Replacing something organic,
With chemical compounds.
Suddenly evolving beyond natural gleam,
Distorting to fit twisted cookie cutter shapes,
We execute the order,
Of this lustful modern god.
There was beauty in the earthen iron's shape,
Forgotten glory, bent to grim reality,
Turning away from standing in the looking glass,
Becoming indistinguishable again.
Just because something is unique doesn't make it immortal,
A new idea that becomes a good idea turns to a common idea repeated and dried.
I am a quiet, silent man,
Dwelling deep within myself.
What I long to say aloud,
I pour into a letter’s shell.

She, playful, fleeting like the breeze,
All that I express in words,
She replied with a single image,
And spoke with her eyes unheard.

How beautiful those nights once were,
What magic lived in those old days!
Today again, my heart desires
To send you a letter… always.

But this time, through an artist's hand,
This letter shall reach your grace.
Some words of the heart remain unsaid,
That only colors can embrace.

To the painter I make one humble plea
When you read my letter’s line,
Sketch her soul upon the page,
And let her truest face shine.

Let us see
If my words still hold the weight
Of truth, of ache, of silent grace.
And if she, when the artist paints,
Still wears that same beloved face...
Or was it all just well-performed
a role she played through posed displays?
Some actors do receive lifetime achievement awards, others just leave behind unforgettable roles in someone’s memory.
Lewis Jun 7
I found a new color
In the space around your face
seemed like it wasn't real
And held my gaze, a spell

How could I tell

Had it always been there
Or was I unaware
That the windows I saw
were just portraits on a wall
To keep my mind astray
For another day

Well that day came
And took me along
Out the door, the windows gone

Blue green black
Softest of reds
Brightest of white
Darkness of coal

Well I was lost
In a strangers world
Only just recognized
I'd been a fool

How could I have painted
A whole new world
Whithout the shade or hue
That comes from you

Blue green black
Softest of reds
Brightest of white
Darkness of coal
To a lover not as lovely as they seemed
Damocles Jun 5
A voluptuous, scrumptious, and delectable
Drawing of hunger, an insatiable hunger.

Hourglass-shaped,
Her waist pinched,
Designed to be held by sturdy hands,
Dancing dainty fingers trace
Ample mounds of bountiful, bouncy hills, topped with soft pastel pink rounds
That draws hunger, an insatiable hunger.

She lies upon a sea of red silk,
A stark contrast to her white,
Like wine and milk. Thirsty, she yearns for a taste.

Her thighs parted like petals,
Revealing the delicate blush of a dawn-kissed bloom.
Carnation pink petals glisten with clear morning dew,
Perfuming the room with intoxicating poignance,

Emerald eyes call to the distance,
A reward for his resilience.
He takes his time to crawl,
Like a hungry wolf stalking prey,
His tongue slashed through gently parted lips.

Pressed thick upon smooth, slicked pedals,
He tastes hints and echoes of her nectar,
Finding little kisses pecked to find her hooded specter.
He flogs while lapping sloppily,
A butterfly to a flower:

Draining,
Drawing patterns, 

Writing love letters,
Breathlessly.

Until his hunger is met with fullness,
And she lies spent, wrapped in red silk,
Drizzled upon her like a garnish,
Strawberry cheesecake.
TW: adult themes meant for 18+
Inspired by looking at **** renaissance paintings while eating strawberries.
dark night
a cabin deep in the jungle
raindrops whispering
on leaves
on the rooftop
on everything
soft steady like an old lullaby
and I’m sitting here
by the dim light
yellow and flickering
writing a poem
about you
for you
because you are near
not here
but near
somewhere in the sleeping village
and that’s enough tonight

by morning
you’ll come
you always do
you’ll open that wooden door
it will creak just right
like a story beginning again
your footsteps will press into the wet fragrant soil
and I’ll hear them
before I see you
and I’ll know
without looking
it’s you

how timeless it feels
how classic
this quiet expectant night
like a paused breath
like the world waiting too

is this a poem I write
or is it one
time is writing through us
without asking

maybe we are not the writers
maybe we are the lines
being drawn
slowly
tenderly
by the brush of this moment
a painting
time never finishes

and maybe
that’s the beauty of it
She used to bring the mornings...
Anais Vionet Apr 18
“There’s a cow at the table,” I whispered, not wanting to be rude.
It’s horns curled like question marks, which seemed quite Apropos
Now that I’ve been to college, I can tell you, there’s a lot that I don’t know.
But a cow at the table, no matter how well dressed, left me, well, confused.
“How do you Dooooo?” I offered, friendships should begin straightforwardly.
When it didn’t answer, I thought, “Well this friendship’s starting off awkwardly.”
Was it hard of hearing? I wondered. “Have you mooooved here recently?” I asked, loudly.
Again, nothing, it just sat there proudly. Did it take my attempt at dialect, as a sign of disrespect?
“Would you like some fooood? I asked, “Some hay maybe?” I was guessing, but it was a guest.
Some friendships start out slowly, but holy-moley, was this livestock trying to troll me?
After some aggravation, and impatience, it turned out to be an elaborate, fraternity initiation.
.
.
*Based on Leonora Carrington’s painting “Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur.”
https://www.moma.org/artists/993-leonora-carrington
VB Challenge: The surrealist painters Remedios Varo and Leonora Carrington moved to Mexico during the height of World War II, where they began a life-long friendship. Write a poem themed around friendship, with imagery or other ideas taken from a painting by Carrington, and a painting by Varo.
Sunseeker21 Apr 15
Purple.
The color, warm, cold,
catching gazes like it’s gold.

Every time I look, I feel the need.
The need to.
To do what? I must, I should, I ought.
The feeling like it’s something,
someone I have already fought.

Living, lying.
Is it the same?
Every time, I immediately took the blame.

Hiding behind, hiding inside.
You could never find me in a lavender field this wide.

The option of expressionism,
the reason for creativity.
Still, we all find a reason to copy,
like it’s some sort of collectivity.

Warm, cold, it doesn’t matter.
I talk of the pain foolishly, it did just shatter.

Blank canvas, standing in front of everyone.
Blank canvas, standing in front of me.

Purple stains my fingers,
a mark I will not be able to wash away.
I wrote this while I was painting
I like music?
Writing is good too.
But music is the best,
I like listening to the records,
As they spin.
Art is nice too,
I like to paint.
Inspired by the awkwardness of icebreakers.
Blank canvas,
A bucket of paint,
I took that bucket,
And I chucked it.
Green blues until,
I had a landscape of Nantucket.
I threw the paint,
And just said '---- --'
I haven't painted in a while but it's fun
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