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each morning when she brushes her makeup on her face
she feels like picasso painting a masterpiece
she is a beautiful piece of artwork
Hunter Green Jan 28
The paintings!
The rain has destroyed the art.
The colors drip like blood from the canvas,
The shapes mix together and blur with the meaning.
No one could plan this.
The memories!
The shame has broken the heart.
My honesty crumbles each time I’m reminded,
Their brush strokes fade under new ones,
Like no one minded.
EP Robles Sep 2018
PICASSO where do you draw the line!
     disjointed reasons
etched across my mind
a
  proverbial t hou ght
o  n
hinge
what say you my man - so abstract!
     rejoicing voices
love s hare s  bisecting angels
and pleasure di verge across
p o in ts
a fissure in creativity moves!
     you  c r a w l e d  out
punching real ity  in the jaw

shattering concepts --
creating new law!

:: - ::
Lovely art.  Surrealism and abstraction are best for me.  Realism is the thing outside the window.
Hae Sun Jul 2018
Today I saw Picasso’s self-portraits only to realize that at 14 years of age, he painted a man 5 times as old as him, believing that it was how he looked like or at least how he sees himself. At 15, he painted a woman who, under any circumstances, does not look like him nor his mother. As he grew older, the paintings became more distorted or rather abstract and surreal that some even looked like there was more than just one person in the frame. His last painting, I assume, is a face but if you look closer you will realize that they are pieces from different puzzles, that somehow, although they fit together, they are not from just one thing – but aren’t we all are?

Picasso, consumed his days thoughtfully to paint such masterpiece that reflects who he is – that he is not just any other person, that he is not just one person. He is a combination of many, the past and present, his mother and his father, the anima and the animus – all these are parts of himself, who, when put together become the Picasso who he knows.

Picasso has mastered it ahead of us – that we are more than just a face, we are a parade of many and if we do not recognize it, we might end up painting faces we don’t know, becoming a stranger inside a home.
Miss Grim May 2018
A tortured artist’s muse, an abstract concept that could never truly be defined. Though, they tried. Aspiring Picasso’s came like passerby’s, setting up their easels, trying to capture the essence of a moment. An ever changing scenery in constant flux. A single clip of time, forever evading the masterpiece. There was only ever a beginning, as frustrations with the unrelenting storm tore the portrait to the ground with each passing breeze. They failed to see the beauty in starting each day with a blank canvas, always determined to brush every ****** perfectly into place before the sun set. The love for the view was lost, so desperate to embody it completely they forget to appreciate it entirely, as layers of color paint a picture of indifference. But tell me Pablo, would you label the bird as callous for wanting to leave the branch...or would you gaze with the all the wonder of life watching it flap its wings?
My wild ambition loves to slide - ye all must understand
But fortune's ice prefers only the most virtuous of hand.
In Malaga I grew weary and wanton to possess
The most colorless canvas, one easy with a lazy happiness,
Disdained by golden fruit to the viewer be
As I passed the crowd to gently shake the tree.
Now manifest in paint, inward contrived and long since
I stood in bold defiance with the heart of a prince,
Held up on the square by one wanting to buy my latest cause.
Against the wind I held it up in spite of all the laws.
Do they wish to thicken my lot among all their other mistakes?
What circumstances find you this? -This is what my mind makes!
The buzzing of my emissaries fill my ears
With many solitary jealousies and fears,
Arbitrary thoughts brought forward into the light,
Contemplating existence, must it prove my vision right?
Weak are the arguments! Which the true artist knows full well,
Where weak minded people curse my renderings or are easy to rebel.
For am I not governed by the moon and by the far off stars?
Tread lightly on me and don’t put me behind your own bars.
And once in a shard of time let the Annunaki’s scribe record,
That my vision once rendered could somehow affect their lord.
The unrecognized Enki still wants to be a chief, yet none
He created was found as fit as barren Adam.
Not that he wished his greatness to create,
For leaders should wish not to be called great.
But he like I know our titles are not to be allowed.
For titles are useless and only dependent upon a crowd,
Those are kingly powers, thus ebbing us out, they might be
Drawn by the dregs of a falsely acclaimed democracy.
But in my paint I attempt, with studied arts to ease,
And shed the unholy venom with visions such as these.
On the other side of the canvas, not much escapes my eye –
But once in front of it – nothing escapes the me that I call I.
I have several prints of Picasso's work and sometimes I ponder their true meanings. I'm like that. I wonder what was the artist thinking as he created this or that piece. Picasso was/is a hard nut to *****. Born of influence and trained mostly by his father he should have had a life of luxury. But such was not the case. For a time he lived almost penniless and hungry a lot of the time. But even in those years he not only refused to conform but he defied all reason to conform to what he was being taught as an artist. Instead he blazed his own trail. And today more people know the name of Picasso than any other artist, I dare say. So - in this piece it is my hope to show you how original he truly was. To me his magic is found in his ability to reflect his own thoughts into - if not inside of - a particular piece of his renderings. After just a little study - you can see him in his drawings, paintings, etc. Here's a last bit of trivia for you concerning Picasso. Were you aware that in his earlier young adulthood that he was so poor that he actually burned some of his own art just to try to stay warm? Think of what any of his burned renderings would be worth today. Now I call that perspective.
William Marr Apr 2018
After frittering away the remaining afternoon
I walk up to the window many times
to see if the sky holds any last surprise

As it hangs over my neighbor’s roof
the sun seems almost
immortal.  Picasso died this morning
I wonder what tunes the three musicians
are going to play
which way the dove
is going to fly

Having shown us the world is still
soft and kneadable
the master hands are now withdrawing
I reach out unconsciously
but realizing how childish it must be
I turn my grasping hands to clapping
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