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stillhuman Apr 25
It's poisonous claws
scratching up from the inside
of my chest, they open
a path of lurid squalor
festering the internal wounds
with rotting meat
that spreads from within
to the skin that crawls
and dies, cell by cell
into the empty stale air
surrounding our conversation

The words float
from one breath to another
without ever really landing
to a precise spot
of connection
They just mimic meanings
and thoughtfulness
when they are void of any feelings

There is no spark of life
no life itself
denied to us
by the putrid scent
we ignore the existence of
No knowledge of pain
or reality
just a dull sense
of immortality
as we still
like the dust suspended
motion our lips without sense
nor sense of self
Corroding second by second
by second 'til we
become dust ourselves
"Natura Morta" is the artistic genre of painting still life
It resembles us so much at times
The poet
of the night
closed her
eyes, and
dreamed of
little stars
as details
in the small
moment of
beauty she
beheld, as a
once hidden,
now coming
alive before
her eyes, as
as when
she had
met the
of a book,
and held
than the
petals of
a flower
held close
to her
forever in
tragedies Jan 30
Day after day, we go through the motions
Like waves searching for shore in the middle of the ocean,
Following along as we get swept by the current
Again and again, waiting for the day it’ll end.

I was lost in this sea of people when I saw him.
A mere glimpse from my periphery, I almost missed
His tear-streaked face and his bleeding knee,
And I thought to myself, how did I not see?

My eyes caught the way his shoulders sagged
From carrying the weight of the world on his back.
He’s only a child but his fate seemed worse than Atlas,
His young body shackled by greedy insatiable hands.

I wonder if someone witnessed his despair,
Picked up a brush and decided to share
The story of a boy whose future was stolen
By heroes who were nothing but villains.

His pleas echo in every brushstroke
And while my hands can never replicate
The vivid imagery offered by paint
He can live on in the words I create.
Tichozpytec Jan 18
An atelier, her small world
Dawn's begun, it's time to work
What do Muses have in store?
She walks with shirt and nothing more
Closer to the easel, brush in her hands
Nothing concrete is in her plans
She listens to the song of morning
With ideas slowly forming
She mixes paints, breathes them in
Such beauty just ought to be a sin
Hand dances on the canvas blank
A ballet of the highest rank
Possessed by gods, she paints and paints
Power surges through her veins
Fix imperfections, a final stroke
From trance she suddenly awoke
Two steps back, sharp eye of a critic
Mind that observes, an analytic
And when she's happy, she sits on the ground
Just looking and looking, not making a sound
In her mind's eye, she feels his embrace
Melancholic smile, tears on her face
She painted for him, though he can't see
"A one for the future, for him and for me"
I was woken up by a nightmare.
I woke up in the middle of the night
when I had fallen asleep
and a poem was finished.
The silence makes the painting 
in the air I breathe,
feel heavy, feel suffocating.
My throat is dry.
And on such a thirsty night,
a poem ordered an inkbox
and a piece of paper,
and I ordered a bottle of beer
and a cigarette and also a lighter,
and night ordered

itself for me.
Indonesia, 29th December 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Nigdaw Dec 2021
emotional kata
series of strokes
against the resistance
of canvas
a picture evolves
almost like nature
becoming organic
an extension of emotion
battle conquering calamity
the brush talks
even shouts some passages
poem based in
pigment and oil
at the end
everyone is exhausted
something happened
beyond the reasonable
control of evolution
Kora Sani Nov 2021
blood from our wounds paints a picture
admired only as it hangs on a wall
smell, touch, taste, and sound
all futile in this moment
sight only, is what guides us
far away we stood, admiring the red saturated strokes that told our story
an impasto of textures, you didn't need to touch to understand
reaching out
we watched paralyzed version of ourselves
fall into recollection
of the pain, the joy, and the solace we once knew
Anna Oct 2021
So many thoughts.
So many ideas.
Yet my mind is blank.
Like a painting that hasn’t been started.
I want to be beautiful.
I want to see colours.
I want to bring light to this dark world.
But my mind is blank.
And yet it is racing.
I feel so numb.
But I feel everything.
I see what could be, but I am stuck.
I am happy.
I am sad.
I am angry.
But I am also nothing.
I am blank.

I miss the colours.
I miss the light.
I want it all back.
I want to feel again.
I want to fight.
But I am tired.
So tired.

When will I be painted?
When will I be finished?
will I be filled with light and colours again?
Or will I stay blank, and dull.
The art of longing
was painted
on the wall of sadness,
and yeah
you are the ink of my falling tears.
Indonesia, 9th October 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
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