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Exterior beauty is viewed like the average individual passing a painting.
They barely understand meaning, but seem to conclude that the painting is beautiful.

Interior beauty is ignored like the average individual passing a painting.
They understand the surface, they see it's beauty, but the exact story behind the painting is unknown and worthless.

We focus on the exterior, make a decision and leave, but forget that the interior is what will reveal itself louder than the most bombastic exterior.
Donna 4d
Nextdoors dog barking
Paint *** and paint brush waiting
No lay-in today

Life is a natural  painting,
Make it lively and stimulating.
Use strokes of hope,
Tone it with varied patience,
Texture it with kindness,
Brush it with confidence,
Use exotic colours of love and care,
Happiness and laughter.
Corey 5d
Art has a voice.

My paintings speak when I can write no more,
and I see that their colors, shapes, sizes,
elude to moments of my ****** history.

Like the time I had the light ****** out of me
when I thought I could hold together the broken
pieces of my first relationship; Allison never
helped to clean up the mess.

Or the times my mind has been a flood,
at three in the morning, of dark reds
and blacks shooting out in explosions
against the backs of my eyelids.

I see the hours spent trying to put out little fires
of cynical attitude and distrust that Green
brings out on the canvases.

And the treacherous landscape of emotion
politely covered up by a white
surface, turned grey from far too much
to cover up.

My paintings speak before I know that I have spoken
and I see the colors running down the to the floor
like tears shed over past troubles.

Art is a voice.
Shall we from now on only express ourselves in flowers?
Show up blooming colors that speak volumes more than words ever could. On my off days, I'll leave you a single Azalea in mourning, so you understand I am doing this for me. When my season does come, I will string together a crown of Dandelions. To symbolize what it is I feel when I lay down next to you. Can I have this dance? Through endless fields of Daffodils until we wilt down for the night. I will plant a forest full of Tiger Lillie's. Burning like a sunset on fire. I can't help but read Tulips in your eyes, blue as the bright morning sky. Feed me water and sunshine so my garden may grow to spread love and joy. Paint my body the beauty of a dozen Red Roses. Truly, that is what you do to me. Zinnias grow in circles around us every time you smile, pure and white. Painting the world in hues newly discovered.
But I won't keep you captured. Standing in a vase, center on my kitchen table. I will set you free. Gift your sweet, honey-like kisses to the bees. They need you more than I do. And in our final goodbye, I will sing to you. Whisper of Sweet Peas as I transform into a Primrose. After I will wander off and get lost amongst a sea of Poppies. I hope you will carry a pink Carnation with you as not to forget me. One day I will tell them about us through bouquets of Gardenias. They will last forever, these moments. Like petals pressed between the pages of our story. Here we shall live forever, together at last. Buried in the grounds of our secret garden.
I used the following website if you want to understand the extra layer please read this :)
Everything I see,
Turns into ideas.
Poems, paintings,
Music, art.
My life is full,
Drafts everywhere.
Surrounded by
Undone paintings.
I Sometimes
Have to,
Clean it all up.
Delete, Erase,
Rip apart.
So you can go now.
I don't need you,
You're a
Worthless idea.
It's all

< >
I'm writing a small poem every day, about how I feel or the world around me. This is #6
Hunter Green Mar 15
I want to burn the insides,
Smoke out the pain of the third time.
If this is what it takes to find my place,
I don’t know if I can go on.
As long as its always you and never me,
I’ll be fine, maybe just skip a beat.

I’m sorry I left my fingerprints,
I feel like I stole color from your painting.
But I still want to visit the museum,
I don’t care the price or the length of line.
I don’t mind the reconstruction time.

I can’t let go without rejecting part of me or emptying my dreams.
My soul won’t let me feel right if I drop hope.
So I’ll stay home and keep writing my poems,
Until I know the museum is open, ready for tentative visitation and revitalization.
the sailor withered
from the salty ocean wind
stands upon ship's bow

in the cold nights fog
peering through uncertainty
a lighthouse beckons
a haiku
Arisa Mar 3
I paint the picture with pastel colors.
Dotting the sky in pink clouds
While the horizon lay in an amber slumber.
A single pine tree slanted towards the crystal lake;
I draw another for companionship.
And it soon blooms into a forest
With shrubs and blackberry bushes and ferns,
Then I make a ripple in the lake
With leaves that drift along the gentle current
To the farther edges of the tender loch.

I envisioned the clear waters of the wetlands
As I cleaned my pallet and washed away the paint,
Like how painting landscapes washed away my worries.
I'm sure you saw a completely different image to what I actually painted. You are such a unique, beautiful creature.
Tanya Feb 6

you pushed  me on a wall
was I a painting to  hang?  
y o u r  tongue  spoke m y
l  a  n  g  u  a  g e       y e t  
I didn’t  u n d e r s t a n d  
  what an artist were   y o u  
t o forcefully draw on me  
with   your  ugliest paints  
  with your dirtiest d e e d s  
that’s  n o t  how paintings
should be drawn     b  u  t  
n  e  v  e  r            m  i  n  d,
blame it on  the   a l c h o l
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