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Piyush Sharma Sep 22
This clueless hill I'm climbing  upon,
Tiring everyday but a new hope by every dawn.
Bleeding freely for the renaissance,
Hoping there for a better ambiance.
Ready to proffer everything I've got for the better...
Meghan Aug 11
It was almost a birthmark, a death sentence embossed on the deepest crevice on her heart. Grace had always known that the noble blood fleshed her existence. In return of power and glory, she must wear the brightest crown which will light the horizons to a warm shade of amber. That someday she would rise together with the sun and cradle the stars with this invigorating honor.

The princess fancied the notion of becoming next queen for its promised delight as other royals often tell her. Every time she shut death to birthday candles, it was all that she wished from the watching gods above. To be the perfect heir, the ideal ruler, and especially, the greatest candidate for the crown.

From the gardens waved the precocious white bloom of calla lilies. The clouds were a dash of milk frozen from the never ending stretch of blue. Faint chirps of birds echoed around the towers. On the palace ground, Grace acquired skills of a squire, for it was written through time she would defend this very castle in her hands. Days were occupied with lessons and lunches, meetings with lords and charities. She was a lady of compassion, inherited the old queen’s discipline and sophistication. The townspeople loved her greatly. They cherished her like a living ornament caught in a sea of the unlikely. A depiction of a good woman whose soul was constructed to comply with the rules and duties she is given. Accustomed from the expectations, the princess endures hardships, turning predicaments into something magnificent. The entire kingdom was pleased. And only then, the exploring winds tell otherwise.

Nobody knew Grace wanted to dance. There was this rhythm of renaissance enough to make her pointe shoes swoon across the dungeon room, her shadow--the audience. Instead of being entertained by minstrels, she would prefer the empty theater which she calls home whenever the sun sinks a sudden thought of change. Or that one time she secretly headed for the woods, not far from the stream, and put on a show for the skeletal trees to applaud to. A perfect piece of broken melody. That is what she all was. Her desires transformed into a banquet she must not feast on.

Because she is everything the crown is not.

A young amateur star, an artist of fascination, and a dreamer of the unknown. Perhaps, these were enough reasons why she became a magnet for chaos and everlasting detriments. It murdered her during the day-- kissed her a goodnight. The almond eyes that sync with her cinnamon tea, swirling in brown, blinked briny tears. From withstanding the pain, sustaining the hold, even though the harsh fate made its call. The only concept which drove her far is everyone’s acceptance.

But who could she be really? A figment on the stage? If at each glide the eyes foresee her as a rebel, much to her chagrin, who would look at her then? If the depth of the ocean has been buried within her voice, to everyone’s astonishment, who would listen to her anyways? What if she does not fulfill the responsibility which the kingdom predetermined for her, approved of her? Who would love Grace?

She built an empire so high, she cannot climb down her own stairs.

The message of the wind sounded like a terrible lullaby. It was too venomous for her dilemma. Because until this moment, this scenery, this pronounced living, she never stop hoping that one day, she will no longer be a stranger to herself. When the archbishop lifted the crown from the velvet cushion, the stones shimmered its vow as the brightest. The Queen’s authority shined through all of them. Before she sheds a tear, it already settled on her head, delicate and ethereal, faultless. Grace realized she spent most of her life fitting the crown which does not belong to her in any form.

No! She is not going to mourn another morning, nor sleep the night with a heavy heart. Fear might threatened to slit her throat, but she was not having it! The princess unveiled her mask and hurled the kingdom’s crown beyond the assembly.

“What a disgrace!” They thundered.

The formation of her identity is what stunned the people. None of them expected such disaster to occur, due to this, her royal majesty has sent all white horses in search of the beloved child. Nowhere to be found, her linen dresses flickered in fire while the crowd stared in horror. And she was nothing, but a forgotten soul.

Trees were once again clothed in green after the icy blaze of winter. The princess raced through the minty grasses and drank the enchanting smell of lilac, almost like a doe playing in the wild. She felt light as a feather, dancing in joyful exuberance. Other girls joined her below the white sunshine as they twirled and sang. It was the perfect moment to reveal the blind side buried for so many times. The blood that once dripped in the glass of her ill-reflection began to fill the rims of imperfection. Luminescence was so brilliant she had to squint to see.

The brightest crown anyone can wear is to be their true selves. No matter who you were born to, or where you live, despite the obstacles, and consequences. It does not make you less of a person, for you already are complete.

She was not a disgrace. It is still Grace after all.

i have written this poem  because i never became who my family wanted me to be. and sure enough, the expectations are stabbing me, a lot.
Maria Mitea Aug 10
DESIRE:  ~ is Movement

The desire to change has to be greater than the desire to remain the same.

I desire ~ I move ~ change starts with movement ~ change happens ~ I move~ I desire ~ I move ~ change starts with movement ~ change happens ~ I move ~ I desire ~ ~ ~

~A flower has a greater desire for blooming then remaining in the bud.
~ A baby has a greater desire to grow than staying little.

Nature always has a greater desire for restoration and renaissance, then decay ...
Honour your Nature every day,
Find out what you want! (for real)
Move, Move, Move,  ...

Change doesn’t happen without movement!
From where  to start a change?
Ask what you truthfully want?
Jillian Jones Sep 2019
Let’s make out in an art gallery.

Maybe the more I fall into you
and the more you fall into me,

We will become a work of art
and fade into the background.
No one would notice the two lovers
for all they see is art.

Let’s make out in an art gallery and become
our own renaissance painting.

-let's be the art j.j
I bolted
this hanger
though steep
as the
cliff to
fly her
planes to
new heights
her hills
of Charlemagne
was renaissance
with the
reign in
just a
freshwater danced
such music
until dawn
Chris Saitta Jul 2019
Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.

But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.

Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.
“Iron gall” was the vegetable-based ink common in Europe from the 5th-19th centuries.
“Brown wash” was a wash of wood soot over the ink drawing to enhance the dimensions.
Tempera refers to pigments mixed with egg-yolk.
The “golden ratio” was the famed Greek ratio of beauty (1.618...) applied to art and architecture.
“Sfumato” means “evaporate like smoke” and refers to the technique employed heavily by da Vinci and the Renaissance masters to blur outlines for a softening, misty effect.
Words' Worth Jul 2019
I probably love the truth
And the Truth is poetic
I propose that poetic lines be banned
Does that sound poetic
The Structure Of A Motion Picture
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