Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ameilia Lewis Apr 2019
I want to say you have made me who I am
But you were not the sculptor
You were the one with the vision
Pushing the sculptor to create something
Without defects, without faults, perfection
But you pushed too hard
Until the statue cracked under pressure
You did not make the statue
It was the sculptor
It was I who made me who I am
Star BG Feb 2019
Today I shall etch as sculptor
upon marble vellum tablet,
scribing with tool of pen.

Carving process moves within breath.
With sitting position of arched back.

Then, I shall  exhibit landscape in HP Museum.
Hanging its colorful masterpiece
in hopes it will be in front room.
Inspired by Kristy Thanks
he was
a mast
his cries
of antecedence
when it
tore rings
in these
statuary dramas
and weren't
discursive though
his mindset
left his
quarters skeptical
there yet
darkness pervaded
him aghast
crimes again
A screen of darkness lurks in the heart
Äŧül Aug 2016
I love your eyes and the eyebrows,
And I love your nose & the lips.

I love your smile and the laughter,
And I love your grimace & the tears.

I love your happiness and the anger,
And I love your innocence & the glamour.

I love your appearance in my dreams,
And I love the lap dance you perform.

I love your sketch in all of my memories,
And I love those curves tempting to sculpt.

I love your memories with all my heart,
And I refuse to give up all hope even if you get married to someone else.
My HP Poem #1117
©Atul Kaushal
Lunar Jun 2016
You would be my sculpture.
I'd spend hours on you.
Your face had taken shape,
Your neck was molded new.
I formed your pale legs,
My clay perfect for the fit.
For days I worked on your torso,
For days I only patiently did sit.
Solidifying was real quick,
And I had to be careful.
You could break if mishandled,
I needed to be gentle.
You still had your eyes closed,
So I kissed your dry lips.
But you still couldn't hold me well,
Despite your arms around my hips.
And so I carved your hands,
And caressed them in mine,
Then finally you entwined our fingers,
At last we held back time.
To koreen and her Dearest.

An artist would make art out of the one dearest to her/him, and missing them would supply the will to finish the piece. But no matter how many sculptures, paintings and sketches I do, they can never compare to the real you. One day, I believe, you will hold my hands, and for that time to be the golden seconds of my life, I will not loosen my grip and let go.
Graff1980 May 2015
Enter Pygmalion
Sculptor of my flesh
Firm hands of a man
Desirous of himself
Ego outstripping
Lust driving
Hard stone chipped
The night sounding
Like an uneven clock
Tic tic tic with nary a toc
And the outer shell of my existence
Slowly fades
Chunks and
White marble dust
Removed to find my bust
My curves
My lips
My stony eyes
Fake garbs
With hard wrinkles
My shoulders sanded to perfection
Carefully crafted collarbone
Body finally fully formed
The master Artisan
Find his own enslavement
Obsession with his own creation
Thus all other loves pale in comparison
Perhaps that is the curse or fate
Of all true Artists
Just Melz Apr 2015
Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart
Sam M Gladen Jan 2015
Every time you leave me,
You take a piece of my heart,
But for all the pain,
I'd gladly hand you a chisel and show you where to start.

— The End —