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Steve Page Aug 20
If this wall could talk
If those eyes could see
If those tears could fall
would they fall for me?

If this face could smile
If those lips could part
If those cheeks could blush
would they claim my heart?
Each September comes BEAT Borough of Ealing Art Trail - Art shown in artists homes.  And each August poets are invited to write an accompanying poem to a piece of art.  This is one of my BEAT poems.
pressed strawberries into my skin
to have a permanent bite of a younger me
who plucked sweetness from vines under coastal suns
and wore freckles far from faded —
still hot from the burn that drew them

poked asymmetry into my face
dressed it in tiny, shiny silver spheres
like ornaments on a christmas tree mid-january
a sharp contrast to the dying pine that no ones thrown out yet
that no longer carries the same cheery scent

painted orange through these tangled locks
to revive a youth with shortcake hair and not a single qualm
before it all faded to ***** blonde
the cheap dye smelled like nostalgia:
grape otter pops at waterparks in summers

put on colors with turned up saturation
a palette like that one july — before he drained the flush in my cheeks
and made rainbows look like oz before technicolor
all grayscale and dull when i was promised magic
and music and marvel and memories — the good kind

peered at the lightning bolts on my hips and thighs
that i know i should appreciate — how they’re a symbol for growth
how they’re like little paths that lead to a better me
but i can’t help but hate the way they remind me of earthquake aftermath
no one likes to think about that or see that

played around with pretty eyes
needed something to cover what’s broken behind mine
but he couldn't find any value
in trading his clear blue ponds for these sunken
deep polluted seas

so i

pulled what little i had left in me
and put it on my callous skin
salvaged an old scrapbook full of visions
and said i’d turn them into deja vu
a shapeshifter that shook those who followed along

rewriting everything that was wrong
Eloisa Jun 18
A portrait of love
In the realm of fantasy
Our hearts beat in sync
Rainbow paints on a canvas
Only us, in bed, naked
Ash Jun 10
it's raining
and lana is singing
"don't make me sad"
but i am sad
70 is more than 30
70 is bad
so why do i try
keep going
everyone's the same
how come i have it better?
lana said it's alarming
only seventeen
am i part of this flock
my portrait can't be seen
not even by me
no one will understand
everyone's the same
i don't want to leave
i don't need to leave
i'm leaving.
Pyrrha May 20
I want to fall in love with his bad days
His insecurities
Become a best friend to his loneliness, his fears
A partner to his loathing

I want to love him for all he thinks he isn't
So I can prove him wrong and kiss away his hate

I want to fall in love with his tears
His messy hair in the mornings
His grogginess before his cup of coffee
His clumsy and nervous stutters

Everything about him, I want to find myself fawning over
I want to give him my all and love his everything
Because love doesn't pick and choose
It consumes all or it leaves with nothing

If I only choose to love his shimmer in the sunlight
Or his childish smiles and giggles
Then it would be as if I loved a portrait
Our love would only tarnish and fade with time

I will love everything or I will not love at all
The more I observed the photograph
more soul acquired.

Suddenly it seemed to expel air
directly from her lungs:
transpire,
think,
be sad and then
disguise it.

Suddenly she seemed to want to say something,
to take a look at the light — Careful, careful — with a stare.

Lips loose,
defined,
wanting to form a smile that never comes.

Sparkling eyes that pierce the atoms.

Calmed eyes from the ocean.

Eyes of moon and sun that observes everything.

A silence of complicity was present
in the atmosphere of the room.

And she, who knew her as my self,
suddenly it was not just a photograph.

Every stroke of her face
forced me to return more strongly
to that moment
in which I caught the life.
Mar Orellana Apr 10
I always
Talk too much.
Laugh too much.
Feel too much.
Hurt too much.
Peter B Apr 4
Hi,
it's me again,
hope you don't mind.

I need to talk to you,
you don't need to listen,
that's fine.

I missed you,
I know it sounds wrong.
I am sorry.
If you insist, I will go.

I shouldn't be here,
I should be at work,
making money for myself
and for the government.

I didn't tell anyone that I'm here,
they'd say I'm wasting my time.
But they waste their lives,
living without art,
like animals.

I want to be here, with you,
I want to stare at your face.
It relaxes me, it makes me happy,
it makes my day.

You are so beautiful.
I'd love to know you better,
I know I can't.
There's an abbys of time between us,
dividing us -
we live in two different worlds.

I'd better go,
I'm standing here too long,
the security guard is watching me,
I must look odd.

I'll see you soon,
take care for now.
Stay safe,
have a nice day,
bye.
Inspired by the painting 'Doña Isabel de Porcel' by Francisco de Goya (The National Gallery)
Everyone who met her always
Portrait her image as a
Sturdy one in their heart. But,
In real everyday she is trying
Hard to fix the pieces of
Her broken soul in one.
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