In the bleak winter
under hurrying clouds,
the wind blowing, bitter
gusts through trees’ barren boughs.

A small house: Its nooks
in new Gothic style
once housed the old books
of a forgotten king for a while.

It had been a library,
a place filled with words;
now all that here tarries
are the winds and the terns.

Its glassless peaked window
looks out on the sky
to waters that flow
by the small palace hard by.

The window is incised
in stone shaded gold —
a warm tone that belies
its touch that is cold.

The red palace is crowned
in gold and white marble.
They shine out, gowned
in hues that spite winter’s pallor.

Now blue waters and birds
add color to the scene
that fills this blank window
with nature’s stained glass serene.

This house has stood waiting,
empty in wintriest times —
now it’s filled by nature’s painting
brushed in hushed hues divine.

I look... empty, gray
and before that, crowds were peeked in

Everyone laughs, smiles
and my empty painting presses me against the wall without a moment's thought

I see someone painting my picture frames
With a different brush than the grave, the altar

He paints with words, good deeds
The image becomes something different from the gray and half-world reverie

He is a painter, a painter of my life's painting.

Poetry is a painting
The poet the painter
The reader the beholder

Poetry is a riddle
The poet the riddler
The reader the solver

Oh, poet.
You choose the metaphor.

To love is to paint
delicately dragging your brush across a canvas
being deliberate with every flick of your wrist
every stroke gentle and planned
and when you make a mistake, you don't throw away the whole canvas
no, you pick up your brush and paint a happier picture over it

I've been afraid to paint for some time now.
I always jump into a painting with a happy picture in mind
but my end result is always the same
groggy. messy. not good enough.
maybe I'm just not destined to be a painter

Words melt in the walls
Covered in paintings
Made of you
Made of me
Yours are beautiful
Careful strokes
Each of such precise yet casual calmness
The motion of your hands
They swing and move in such ways of a ballerina
Ones of a mother easing her child to a deep sleep
They recreate a sky that took so many billions
To become one of which it is now
You bring it into your own reality within moments
The lovely lights glow on a cotton canvas
Making music with the latex
darkening what's surrounding it
But me?
Mine are ugly
I leave rotting flesh in the daylight
Spred the shine of blood and paste the teeth of past fighters, veterans
They form the sight of ****** tires leaving streaks on asphalt
The animals that peel off roads, screaming with one last breath
in through your nose, out through your mouth
I'll hold you close and speak
"Let it melt in your mind"
"spit it out and light it up"
lets do it
together
we can burn the truth
Then we can take the melted remains
And make a balanced gallery
A museum made for 2

no, i was not a poet then
because i glazed upon my skin
and saw it as paper i could easily cut.

no, i was also not an artist then
because i painted over my scars,
hoping to become a work of art.

yet, i bear the title of a poet
and wear the badge of an artist,
for indeed, i am a poet and an artist,
but far from the spectrum that society
has manipulated and stapled into your head.

therefore, i'm only human-
one that has always been a work of art,
and a luscious garden of poetry at heart.
i am simply a nuclear fusion
of calmness and chaos,
with a spark of uniqueness.

@boonthemoonluv

I come to you again.
Always do.
And sure as eggs,
You’re always here,
Right where I left you.

I bring you the mundanities that weave me together;
I hope they’re beautiful in their ordinariness.

Pointillist.

You know that painting,
The one of the people in the park?
Like that, my mundanities.
Like if I step back one day,
My moments will be arranged into a perfect pattern of great and universal significance.

Having a daughter.
Tasting an orange.
Holding.
Being held.

Writing a little heart song when I should be asleep
The words of my whims dotting the landscape
While the dog smiles and snores at the foot of the bed.

Oh, look, I’ll say.

I see it now.

While perusing pictures at the Louvre
A dragon felt dismayed and moved
At how often they portrayed
When Saint George cruelly slayed.  
If claws could clutch brushes they’d reprove.

My face like a canvas
And I am the artist
I grab my paintbrush
Dipping it in the paint on my pallet
I bring the bristles up to my lips
And I begin my masterpiece
Painting on a beautiful smile
For all to see
But no matter how realistic my art looks
The smile will always be a painting