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colette alexia Aug 2020
Erase my face from your page
Edit me out of the life you portray
But the pictures of you left
Baby I took them

I watched your life up close
Sat on the front row
Never thought I'd just be
Your photographer

I used to be the spark
I used to steal your heart
You were a flash so bright
When life got dark

I used to be your moon
Your sunset too
Would've spent my life
Making you see how I see you

Now my only role
Now my only role
Now my only role
Was your photographer
SmallKid Sep 2019
If my ex ask me
What do you want supposed to be?
I would say

A Photographer
I wanna take your picture
even your heart too
and I would keep it in my camera, forever
What you supposed to be?
Pictures hang on the wall
None of them with me in it
For I prefer being
Behind the camera
Than in front of it
I’m happy seeing others happy
John Seth Mar 2019
I picked this flower just for you
But you weren't walking with me

So I went and took a picture
And now it's for the world to see

*maybe you'll see it someday too
Emerson Nosreme Sep 2018
I can't describe it officer
I can't describe the feeling of pain
All this bad luck
Came in, like a hurricane
I'm sorry officer
I didn't mean it
They don't help me
And I think these pills aren't either
No officer, I'm not crazy so there

No officer, stop it
don't tell me things that
People tell me each day
I was told I had to.
Family tradition officer.
Yes officer
No officer
I know officer
Stop officer
Stop calling me sir
I don't remember that
Being my

Yes I know it's not real
But you missed something out
It's not real
But look at these photographs officer
These... Visions....
Are based on these photographs
And guess who took them?
Guess who has to risk their sanity
And safety
And their life
And lose their mentality
Just to show these ****** photos
To a world that doesn't care
And brushes them aside
Like dust
Or sand
Or a crying baby
Or a begging homeless dude
Or a sobbing woman

It's me.
And these visions are
Lily Jun 2018
Spilled ink.
Old film.
Crumpled paper.
The click of a shutter.
Pens dying.
Wiping lenses.
Flashlights under the covers.
Struggling with a tripod.
The Rule of Thirds.
Tattered pages.
Beautiful sunsets.
Coffee shops.
Skittish animals.
3 am.
Always thinking.
The horizon line.
The frantic search for pen and paper.
Frustrated with trying to capture the beauty of the world In a small package.
HP won't let me change the words, but the "poet" things are supposed to be bolded, and the "photographer" things are italicized.  The final line is italicized and bolded.
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
You're a painter with brush
My face isn't worth painting

You're a writer with pen
My story isn't worth writing

You're a poet with soul
My umbra isn't worth rhyming

You're a photographer with camera
My appearance isn't worth capturing

You're a director with 35mm
My action isn't worth watching

You're the artist
I am the creative block
Cam May 2018
Every year is the same,
same people,
same places,
same time,
same faces.
They bring me their labeled tickets,
the same ugly tan-colored, black-inked tickets.
Bent and smudged as if it went through their wash.
No time for conversation,
not even small talk,
only the same old.... hello.
They sit, they smile, they leave.
They sit,
on that same old boring brown box,
"Feet placed where the red exes are please."
You think they'd already know that by now.
They smile,
tilting their head to the right,
their eyes looking directly at the lens,
looking as if they were hypnotized.
They leave,  
the camera flashes bringing them back to realization,
they release their breath,  
"Goodbye!" They say,
"Have a nice day!" They say.
Who I wanted to be is who I am not today,
who I wanted to be is not where society has placed me,
who I wanted to be is what society calls a joke,
who I wanted to be is free.
A photographer.
Not here working for life touch taking pictures of the same bland faces,
I imagined myself... flying,
Like a bird traveling around the world,
Capturing every moment I see,
Where the natural light glistens across the landscape,
where i can direct the poses of my subject.
But instead,
i'm stuck here taking pictures for life touch
of the same people,
at the same places,
of the same faces.
this is my first time posting a poem.
i do not work for life touch.
a soliloquy is an act of speaking one's thoughts aloud when by oneself or regardless of any hearers, especially by a character in a play.
(so im acting as if i were working for life-touch but i really wanted to be my own free photographer).
K Paige Mar 2018
the photographer has a golden hour and i am envious of them

the golden hour is the period of time directly after sunrise
or before sunset

it is here where light kisses dark

it is here that these artists thrive

and come alive

it is here where they capture a magical transition


the writer may spend months in a stupor
searching for their next golden hour

how dizzying it is to realize that what we see is believed to be
more real than what we feel

when will the sun rise in my mind again?

Brianna Duffin Feb 2018
My sister is a beauty,
A photographer, an artist
And the best subject imaginable.
She is the main attraction of my coffee shop,
She’s the mainstay of Main Street.
Unlike every other woman I know,
She only carries her camera and her dignity.
And the gaze of a mirror;
Her plaid shirt, oversized even when it was mine.
A pair of tights earning their title
And sky-high leather boots, a rocker’s staple.
A cheesy beret, our mother’s bracelet.
Blonde locks like there are teardrops on her guitar.
And to complete the classic ensemble, Satan’s prized pearls:
The Cheshire Cat smile.
All tucked behind her expensive-as-hell camera.
And her phone, case with white box and black bow.
Just like my baby sister,
A photograph with a black bow.
This poem appears as part of a collection. Read it in full here:
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