Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jillian Jones Sep 11
Just because you do not find the beauty
in words and poems,
in drawings and paintings,
in colors,
in the waves of the grass
or the bark of a tree,
does not mean
that I should not too.

I should not be out-casted
for finding beauty in things that
you do not.
My opinions do not change your view,
Why should yours change mine?

maybe, for once,
take the leap, take the chance
in finding beauty in something other than
what you think is normal.
Not until you take that chance
can you tell me that my views are wrong.

-the ballet of a dreamer j.j
A composer
of the stars,
& astronaut
of dreams,
the unsung
swan of the
night, who
draws the
paintings
of her
thoughts,
the clouds
of dandelions
fields forever
in reverie,
her sigh settles
the seas of
lilac dreams,
as music
plays, she
enjoys the
indigo hues
of a bohemian
way of life,
and every
person
on this
earth is,
in their own
way, an
eccentric
of their
own hue,
upon the
painting of
life in the
microcosmos
to the lights
beyond, one
possesses
the traveler
in the chest,
a seeker of
the secret,
unrevealed
revelations,
a hidden
lover of
truth,
a flower
always
in perpetual
rebirth,  
the secret
dancer
of the
night,
musing
upon the
wisdom
of how
every
human
holds the
aubade
within the
intricacy
of their
silver
scales,
in the
deeper
tides
of eyes
meeting
to become
one in the
balladry
of being
within each
other’s gaze,
for eyes reveal
the drifters,
who sail in
the ocean
of words
and catch
her star-dew,
where she
hears the
hidden,
secluded
symphonies,
they reveal
the lights
of their
own as
time, the
mysterious
one, flows
her fabric
and they
grow closer
to one, she
watches
upon them
unfolding,
as she
opens
her wings,
they close
their eyes,
when two
had once
seeked
to be other
than the
truth of self,
from their
chests are
opening
butterflies,
they awaken
in their
cocoon,
awaiting
the voyage
to the
moon,
the poet
sits by his
window,
and softly
sung “all of
what the
eyes see
in bloom
is poetry”
Some disguises aren't meant to be revealed
Some thoughts aren't meant to be spared
Some beasts aren't meant to be chaotic
Some evenings aren't meant to be charming
Some paintings aren't meant to be catchy
Some belongings aren't meant to be buried
Some flowers aren't meant to be favourites
Some incidents aren't meant to be happening
Some people aren't meant to be suffering
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 naked-- 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
Next page