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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.

Calm eyes of 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 ****** 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 Balkus 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.
Feelin' Lucky Mar 21
Today I looked in the mirror,
After writing a few poems.
And I wondered how long I could sit there,
Without starting to hate myself.
But I didn't see myself in the mirror.
I saw a monster.
Hidden in a box.
And if the safe opens,
And the secrets are spilled.
All that's left to see,
Is the self portrait of a monster.
I'm writing a small poem every day, about how I feel or the world around me. This is #8
Kayla Hardy Mar 18
How can I, a source of such exuberant energy, look so startled?
Black, sunken eyes with a wide, gaping mouth that can **** you, but also bring things to life.
Hunched against the wall, I pale in comparison to the pretty polka-dot paint,
just a hard, blank shell covered in dirt, grime, and dust.
Come to me only when time is on the line, with forceful, shaking hands.
to fill my deep, dark void with a surge of passion,
only to abandon me for hours at a time, while I exert all my energy just to bring you joy.
I hum and buzz until you rip away my nutrients until I’m ****** and drained,
with my surprised expression returning to one of electrifying horror.
But still, I’m the lucky one to give you a glowing light, always full, to destroy the darkness.
I’m not one that gets lost in dusty shadows that might never be found,
who sits in silence, with that shocked face, waiting to find out his powerful purpose.
Prompt: Write a portrait of someone or something no one else pays any attention to.
Lee Mar 12
The perfect still portait that captures all beauty.

Is it the rising sun as it strokes the oceans creating a beautiful mirage of wonder?

Is it the night light sky where the moon and stars remain out of reach with the lone dancing star few see?

Is it the moment of two joining in love and putting the bands of eternity upon their finger?

None of these are the perfect still portait.

The perfect still portrait is the moment in time not captured by lense but by sight and mind.

The perfect still portrait is a feeling and memory at once that can never be described or forgotten.

My perfect still portrait is the moment you said you love me.
My pencil swimming
on the paper.
It's drawing equal lines.
It's slowly draw out contours, silhouettes.
Such wonderful portrait.

Line after line.
Hatch after hatch.
A curves binding together.
A painting birth in front
of my eyes.
So wonderful, amazing.

I drawing you by pencil.
I drawing your portrait.
Each line, each curve,
each centimeter.

A soft lines of your face.
Your eyes deep lines.
Your silhouette came
in my frame.
I drawing you.
I drawing your portrait.
Anne Jan 20
There’s a moving portrait above my sink,
her cheeks are pudgy,
her skin is pink.

Her eyes are melting,
teeth fallen out,
her noose is bleeding
a river of doubt.

The portrait screams,
she cries for aid,
she tells a dead god,
that he could have stayed.

No oil,
no paint,
no canvas,
not a brush;
Instead this portrait feels and aches,
her rawness still to gush.

Yet dusk is dusk,
and by dawn it is dawn.
You may look for such a portrait,
to find that it is gone.

Not a finger nail in sight,
not a single clogged hair.
It begs but one question:
Was she ever really there?
every **** night
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