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Pauline Morris Apr 2016
Black slimy books, black slimy words
Black slimy fingers cramed them into a black slimy worlds

In my cracked up mind those slimy black words sunk in
This is how the end will begain

Blackbird sitting on my windowsill
Wait for me to seal the deal

Those black slimy words soon accumulates
They become black slimy books, my imagination stimulates

The black goat waits outside my window patiently
As the black sheep walks around aimlessly

The black slimy books have now become blood slimy pictures
Seen through my mind's eye with stricter
It was all becoming the perfect blood slimy mixture

The black goat has now donned his crown
He beckons me to come on down
To stand beside him on the earths ground

The blood slimy pictures are now a blood soaked movie in my head
That plays over and over and over, till I'm filled with blood soaked dread


So I seal the deal with the blackbirds blood
Emotions overwhelms me like a torrential raging flood
Then the emotions are suddenly gone with a thud

So if you are reading this you might see why
I left with the black goat, so dont you cry
Maybe I'll be back as time goes by
Vista Apr 2016
picture perfect plastic dolls
line up in the ballet hall
masks adjusted, shoes pulled on
the cameras flash, the lights are on.
flaunt their figures, beguile the boys
wildly pirouetting with a perfect poise
a silent chorus of envy they sing
patch the masks and sew a grin.
the curtain falls, the masquerade drops
her pointe shoes are all worn out
her toes are bleeding, her ankle’s sprained
but a sparkling reputation she has claimed.
a perfect picture of plastic dolls
lined up with their masks all on
the colours fade, the angle’s changed
to show beneath, their melted face.
On the nonexistence of perfection.

© Copyright
Untitled Mar 2016
Picture on the outside
Static on the inside
Luna Craft Mar 2016
My skin aspires to be more than just a doll, a story, a song.
More then just a picture book, more than something you only read in bed
Not bound by leather or the clothes on my back
Call me an individual, for that is all I want to be
We strive for normality when all we want is peace
A peace that can only come when we realize we aren't art
We are not paintings to just for viewing
We are history itself; we are not one idea
I do not strive for greatness, I strive have a place to stand
A tree in a forest of graves
TERRY REEVES Mar 2016
HOW WE LAUGHED AT THE PHOTOGRAPH -
HAIR LONGER THEN, CAN WE GO BACK AGAIN?
IT WAS A SUNNY DAY WITH THE SMELL
OF NEW CUT HAY - COULD BE ANY MAY

BUT IT WASN'T - TIME WAS PINPOINTED
AND FATED EXACTLY NEITHER FORWARD OR BACK,
JUST ON THE MERIDIAN AND WON'T COME AGAIN

ALWAYS A GOOD MOOD NEVER CAUGHT THE SAME
HIDDEN FROM VIEW NOT SHOWING SOLUTIONS,
ONLY SMILES, SNAPPY CLOTHES AND GOOD INTENTIONS

I CLIMB IN YOUR PICTURE AND WALK TOWARDS
YOU - A LIST OF THINGS ON MY LIPS BUT
SOMEONE SAYS NO! AND TIME STANDS STILL,
HOW WE DIDN'T SEE JUST HOW LUCKY WE COULD BE!
Dhaye Margaux Mar 2016
She is the stained girl,  a diffident dreamer
Who looks for the sun and the rain together
Her  panache is to craft blissful memories
Festooned with vivid thoughts, her accessories

She is the stained girl,  a feeble believer
Who relies on a happy ever after
Yet scared to be seen from her cheerful facade,
Something that would charge her of being a fraud

She saunters in the midst of the piqued storms
Resounding the hues of the jaundiced norms
Like a bird highlighted with vibrant plumes
To fly around the walls of perplexing rooms

She wears the best maquillage, old and new
To make everyone away from being blue
She offers her hair, those gilded strands
Yet they exploit her gift with their vicious hands

She is the stained girl who seeks for uprightness
Yet pain has shaped her with creased faithfulness
In front of a looking glass, there I see
That magnificent, stained girl looks like me.
*Stained here is colored or painted.

For the Picture Poem This contest  5. Thank you for bringing back my muse.
Phim Mar 2016
Good girl
*** hair
No way
Not fair
Fat thighs
Nice ***
Acne face
Hourglass
Wonder if that's all they see
No way to know
Is that me?
Chubby cheeks
Button nose
Perfect lips
Hairy toes
Good enough?
All the same
Picture perfect
That's the game
Leigh Mar 2016
You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to trace the times
Your perfect puzzle-piece body
Sat home with mine;
Quiet hands on your chest
And on your stomach,
Breathing closer;
Holding tighter to muffle
The 'nails in skin'
Sort of **** that was
Held at a distance

You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to suffer the nights
You were left alone with my mood

You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to worry
As you hold together -
I sink into my crawl space
Pushing the rubble to the top

You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to relive and to relove
The way I should have
I love,
how you allow me to take pictures of you.

But do you know,
How hard it's to get something that beautiful
in such a normal frame
Noah A Baker Mar 2016
So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.

Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.

Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".  
To map a new demographic before our deaths.

If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.

And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.

We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.

The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.
background:
we always struggle with pursuing what we want to do due to us believing we can't, or lack of resources, that we don't have what it takes, etc. And that's more or less fear making you think that. Once you let go of the fear in your head you can chase your dreams and passions. Once you realize that it's just a mental block, and you remove it, the world is yours to do what you want. Enjoy!
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