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Lost in assumptions and conclusions
Living amongst influences and illusions
How easy it is to lose my sense of self

While drowning in other's expectations
That often discourages original creations
I consider just being like everyone else

But to go down a path already made
Starves me of the adventure that I crave
And an undaunted outlook I have not yet felt

I am a palette among paintings
Still in the process of creating
A new colour to call myself
Makumi Apr 21
#4
It's a skewed kind of history
Of what if Da vinci knew you?
Then maybe the mona lisa would be a painting of you
Could we regard
Monsieur Pierre Bonnard
as an artist
whose kindness shone brighter
than his best hues?
Is it vital to search for spaces the contours of light,
in the unnamed wilderness?

Didn’t he draw
this aqua bath with discrete joy?
I may need not to know
whose skin will glow,
but imagine her

The body moving
in space through time
The mind dancing
gears of thought.
like sparkling dew
on the high window.

I might have seen it myself
A state Bonnard lived in,
or aspired to?
stretched out,
stress free,
in a Bonnard bath,
not briefly
but eternally.
Went to Pierre Bonnard exhibition at Tête Morden with friends who loves Pierre Bonnard’s painting.
memoona kazmi Mar 15
i took paints of my love,
used the brush of truth,
gave few strokes of generosity,
gave it touch of hues,
oh honey look i painted you.........
Astral Mar 5
I don't know what to write,
But my hands itch
For the sweet release of poetry.

Just like the ears yearn
For the smooth symphonies,
Just like the eyes call
For the breathtaking beauties,
My hand reaches
For the blessed release of inspiration.
Sky Yang Jan 24
do not overthink,
(said the Over-thinker)

close your eyes
and see

shut out all sounds
and listen closely

reach out, grab it, tumble
into it, collide with your
fullest body and lick it, taste it
with your soul until it too,
can taste you

so be *****-- let the tender flesh of your mind
be cold and exposed to it

give yourself to it, and it will give itself to you
this is why i can't see paintings at museums they'd kick me out lmaoo
Arianna Dec 2018
Strolling the sunlit white halls,
Silent galleries ornamented
With the rich hues of centuries,

Old friends gaze back
From gold engraved windows,
Stoic behind glass curtains,

And I wave back
In passing, stirrings of memories
Vague
Rippling through my mind.

No recognition flickers in their eyes,
Though I recall the flush of cheeks in summer,
And the grace of hands raised in greeting.

Do you not remember me?

Hall to hall,
Gallery to gallery,
Scanning the walls for my own
Long-empty frame
For to travel through time
Back home.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be just a figment of someone's imagination. Would it be like "Sophie's World", where the thoughts come alive and have their own consciousness within a mind containing multitudes?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gYgJrPerkhI
Vaniexe Kafka Sep 2018
And then he didn't come back

The summers passed, autumns faded, winters roared, and springs bloomed but he's nowhere to be seen.

As she made her way to the shore, she felt the gentle breeze and the embrace of the waves and as she looked up; she saw the moon alone in the vast nothingness of the sky with no star to keep her company.

She remembered him, thinking that maybe the stars are gone for the moon is too broken and is not as illuminated as it was the first time.

Then she remembered the first time he laid eyes on her. His eyes shone so bright, held much admiration in his gaze that she couldn't understand for she is nothing sort of a goddess the moon had blessed.

None of her poems caught the light and the life in his eyes when they first met: of how it looked silver and storm that reflects his turbulent emotions, of how his eyes reached the depths of her soul with his gaze, of how he saw her as his moon.

None of them could ever describe how his eyes demand to be stared at. None of them.

But then, he was a fleeting light like a poem you will only read once for it is blindingly painful that it hurts looking the second time.

And now, she feels a part of her is missing as she search for the stars up above.

And then she fixed her gaze, closing her eyes to the moon: wishing that when he said "It's because of you." He doesn't mean goodbye. Wishing he doesn't mean she's the reason why he's gone. Wishing that dreams aren't supposed to be just dreams for when they become reality, they take away the magical feeling.

A few tears escaped her closed lids and glistened as they bathe on the light of the moon as she thought of the last poem she'll ever write to him.

And then she finally whispered hoping the wind will bring it to him:

" And maybe,
   paintings and poetry
   couldn't hold a candle
   To every emotion
   we once had.

    You
    hold a key
    when we
    first met.

    I should've known
    that that key
    is not for me

    For I
    was never
    your home. "
Entry # 2 To the Book I Will Never Write
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