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Em MacKenzie Oct 9
The colours to illustrate you don’t exist,
and even if they did I still would miss,
a single shade or hue
that fully captures you.
Better than a Mona Lisa smile,
and Starry Starry Night eyes,
I tried for a mosaic but there was no perfect tile,
nothing could do justice, blasphemy to anyone that tries.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
every gallery should be honoured to have you on their walls.
Too complex for graffiti on the streets,
too heavenly for concert halls.
I can write you; rainbow and tornado,
orbs of faint blue, and a grin of sweet day glow.
Oceanic waves and erupting volcano,
the sun’s ray that came on through,
and the embrace within the wind’s blow.

There isn’t a single brush head I could find,
that could stroke each corner of your mind,
it’s too complex and deep,
it’d be so stunning, it would make all weep.
Putting shame to an Impression, Sunrise
and casting shadows on Lady with an Ermine,
as just a simple picture of your eyes
would last eternally through time.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
not meant for a mere mortal to possess.
Completely perfect personality, traits and feats,
every other human design was just a test.
I can write you, style and rhyme,
blindly bright, natural sunshine.
Digging only at surface to fit into each line,
but there’s no describing what connects it all or the bind.

I know the answer but if you said,
that your favourite colour was red,
I’d let myself bleed out to provide you some paint.
Non acrylic and totally free of lead,
I’d wish for you to illustrate the picture  within my head,
even if the proportions are wrong,
and the lines are blurred and faint.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
completely impossible to duplicate.
Though unfinished you’re still complete,
amazingly flawless in this state.
I can write you; every day till I die,
until the pages and filled and my pens run dry.
Deep like the ocean, but bright like the sky,
and you’ll steal the hearts and breath of all passing by.
Jillian Jones Sep 20
Let’s make out in an art gallery.

Maybe the more I fall into you
and the more you fall into me,

We will become a work of art
and fade into the background.
No one would notice the two lovers
for all they see is art.

Let’s make out in an art gallery and become
our own renaissance painting.

-let's be the art j.j
Peter B Aug 19
The gallery is closing soon,
hurry up,
don't say you will come
another time.

I bet you want to see "Sunflowers".
You say you can wait.

You can,
but what if they can't?
Written after my visit to The National Gallery in London.
Peter B Aug 18
Maybe I would have stayed,
if they told me the truth
why they are there for.

And maybe, if they tried a bit harder,
came clean and smelled nice,
maybe I wouldn’t have minded.

If they knew how to speak to me,
if they were gentlemen, not ******,
maybe they would have had me.

If they showed a bit of decency
and a bit of courtesy,
an ounce of a dignity,
not only lust in loans,
maybe they'd have me all.

If they bought me flowers
or sang me a song,
or played a sweet tune,
made me feel like a Princess,
maybe
I wouldn't have said No.
Inspired by the painting "Susanna and the Elders" by Rembrandt.
Donna Aug 16
Listening to tunes
Whilst sanding down and painting
These are my best days
I’m at my daughters and her lovely partner painting up there living room :)
I love to paint one of my best hobbies xxxx
m h John Aug 1
look at you
with your ocean colored eyes,
sun kissed cheeks,
and coffee bean colored hair

you look as if
you were painted by

Norman ******* Rockwell himself
Sophie Jul 29
My niece is sat opposite me
My niece is in possession of paint
And a paintbrush
And I’ve surrendered my hands to her.

That tickles!
My face scrunches

Paint properly plastered
The newspaper in front of us her dad had put down for her she swaps for plain
I wiggle the digits on my
Upward facing palms.

Now flip!
Like this?
She nods
And splat
SPLAT!

The One That Married Into This
Via me
Comes in from the kitchen.
I rise from my cross-legend position
And pat his cheek as we meet in the doorway
Then I rest my hand on his shoulder,
Trying to gaze lovingly,
As opposed to smirking.
He doesn’t notice the paint
Because it’s warm
And maybe I’ve just got clammier hands than usual.
I go to wash my hands off.

Your turn!
Le artiste demands
My turn?
Everybody turn!
Great-aunties groan.
Alright then.

SPLAT!

The One That Married Into This
Touches a reassuring
Painted
Palm
To just below my back.

So ordinary
We only notice the paint prints
As we graze the hall mirror
As we start the 30 minute process
Of saying goodbye

Walking art
He whispers
As we walk out the door
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