Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Noura Mar 13
I often wonder what would the world look like without me
the ego of man, brazen and bold
what keeps you awake, when others lay
unconsciously
physically opaque
tragically present
ringing echoes of words layed with ink
never having seen the light of the splendid sun
we plot and plot and plot
for naught
we are but a child, collectively
a singular child
one hell-bent on destruction
not seeing beyond the splinter of light
allowed through a cracked door
and the world looks on
with equal parts amusement and concern
our significance is insignificant
both tangible and fraught with the tragedy of being
of the lack of being
of managing what cocktail of emotions we are to be ****** into
when loss knocks on the door
Mrs Timetable Feb 23
Drawn by the sadness of time
Minutes of repeated striations
Hours of wounded sketching
Days draining color
Outstare me...I dare you
Survey my damage
Morphing into
A dueling masterpiece
For the young artist
Suki G Apr 2021
Stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers,
a soft brown veil dusted with gold.
Take a long nail, pry it aside,
come, see what’s within for a modest fine.
My flesh, a soft pink for a childhood much missed,
my blood, a loud red for all the shocks I’m full of,
my bone, I’m not too sure for none have travelled far
but if you pressed me hard enough, you’d feel it -
scrolls of poems written and yet to be,
my tongue a ribbon binding them all,
my teeth an ivory chest to contain them,
and sweet lips carefully locking them for now.
A treasure trove awaits those
of my blood and water,
presented on a silver platter under
a soft brown veil dusted with gold
stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers.
YY Sep 2020
I look at myself in the mirror,
A young artist, so lost - couldn’t see clearer.
Where to go and where to drip the paint?
I might as well lose consciousness and faint.

Confused, confined, cannot define the meaning of my life.
I don’t belong to any tribe,
Combining stories of my past,
I am so lost, alas.

The right, the wrong, its all collapsed,
The life will always just elapse.
Complex and very simple at the same time,
Oh look, another rhyme.
Nicholas Zuraw Sep 2020
The vision :
(dreams torn, torn)

A picture came to me in the darkness of night,
Of myself in ten, twenty years time;
Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight,
Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me,
Sad and grey and defeated.

The sketch :
(in harsh charcoals)

This dream that came to me,
Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day,
Lost my innocence.

The Canvas :
(Life, existence)

I had been high-minded and apologetic,
Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean,
And guilt’s I didn’t understand.
And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.

In Oils :
(violent colours)

I had spent years thrashing around in confusion
As drowning men pull each other under,
As wave after wave we are swept away;
Our cries obscured by the thunder.

My signature :
(...)

See my writing on the wall,
There’s no one to catch me when I fall;
But Death was on my side:
Suicide.
Written many years ago in London
Paul Hansford Feb 2016
(rondeau redoublé)

This lived-in face has seen the years go by
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

And while I always feel the need to brace
myself against life's storms, I know that I
can never win. Death always plays his ace.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by.

It's little help to know the rules apply
to every member of the human race.
Dark clouds are growing in my evening sky
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.

In this vast universe I have my place,
but can my thoughts outlast me when I die?
or speak to those in other time or space?
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,

Yet while dark thoughts of gloom may multiply,
to let them win would be a sad disgrace,
though many things may make me want to cry,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

Yes, my mortality I must embrace,
not waste my time in always asking why,
or fearing not to do things "just in case."
I'll dry those tears. There's no point to deny
this lived-in face.
Rukes for this form and many others are at   All the examples there are written by the authour of the site.
chris Jul 2020
if you draw yourself, looking in the mirror

then that’s a self-portrait.  
if you’re looking in the mirror to draw yourself,

you’d probably start you think of who you really are
I reflect on what happened and who I was in the past few years.

and I made this poem.
lilith grace Jun 2020
She was a force.

So resilient, that even the strongest powers of nature, were terrified to cross her. She wore her hair in messy ringlets, laughed unapologetically, rocked red lipstick, and didn’t sweat the small stuff. Nothing the universe threw at her could knock her down.

Except

there were still parts of her, that she hoped no one could see. Fragments of a woman just trying to make it through. She loved from a distance, spoke clearly with caution, only allowing herself to be vulnerable when she was alone. No one could see that she too, was human.

She was a paradox.

Each piece of her contradicting the other, and she made sure to never let anyone in long enough, to understand what lived below her surface.
wesley camarillo Mar 2020
skins translucent,
hearts on your sleeve,
doesn’t matter how hard
ya try to hide it,
no ones that naïve.

w.c.
LadyM Nov 2018
This is me,
But the truth is-  
There's much more beneath the surface

I'm not talking 'bout the bones
Or the flesh beneath my skin,

If you look into my mind,
You'll see a portrait from within.

My eyes are two glass windows
Smeared with colour stains,

There's an endless rush of brightness
Always pulsing through my veins

I feel hope among the stars-
Cosmic blossoms of the dark,

I don't always find my way
On the journeys I embark

I am at a crossroads
Now knowing where to go,

But I've ways stood up straight,
Despite carrying cargo.

My face is not my only worth,
See the truth:
This is me.
This poem also exists in visual form, as it is one of my college art sketchbook projects :) Each verse is a different picture, a part of me. Try to imagine it in your mind how that would look like.
Next page