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YY Sep 18
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.
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 Lndon
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 25
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.
drew Jun 2
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.
skins translucent,
hearts on your sleeve,
doesn’t matter how hard
ya try to hide it,
no ones that naïve.

w.c.
Tommy Randell May 2019
I'm an anthology of one
I'm a dead mother's son
I'm a poet who has no raison d'être

I can wake up with poems
That've been hatching and growing
Like a hive of rhyming etceteras

Pity me, pity me, I have been cursed
I squirt it all out like a toothpaste of verse
I've smeared it across pages and screens

It's a compulsive disorder
My brain's a pestle and mortar
Grinding out word spice like a machine

It comes out of my brain as pure audio
It's everything that's in me on overflow
Every thought in my head made physical

Words are my carbs and my proteins
I'm an infinite ******* of phonemes
Every moment of Life is a syllable

I'm an unbroken chain of events
About trying to make it make sense
About trying to ride out the wave

Opening my arms when the wind blows
Attempting  to peer into the shadows
It's me striving to walk out of the cave

No its not whether you're listening
You think it's a good vibe or just piffling
Its not what it is but what it wants to be

It's a tickertape of meaning
Pouring anagrams of streaming
It's an anthology of one and that's me.
Tommy Randell Feb 2019
Forget about the face,
My ears are question marks
And oddly placed.
Everything that can be said, they say -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The eyebrows too I think,
One of them's a caterpillar
And clearly out of sync.
Some say asymmetry is beautiful in its way -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

At 66 my lips are thinning,
Squinting sideways when I smile
In effect more akin to grinning,
My English teeth a little grey -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The right positioning and number of limbs
Does little to improve
The overall slackness of bones & skin.
Indeed, I don't walk so much as sway -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

So there it is, my mirrored Self,
Companion in my ageing days,
Heir to generations of rich genetic wealth.
Self Portrait, posed to flatter, as displayed -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.
Tommy Randell Jan 2019
In the drawing of a self portrait
There are choices to be made,
Surprises that lie in wait -
Which Me will show his face today?

The Cynic, the Lover, the Clown,
The textures of Shadow and Pain,
The Father, the Loser, the Frown,
The calligraphy of Peace regained?

Should i try and aim for a likeness,
Improvise something dramatic,
Make a statement, Bold and Revealing,
Or go all out for the Laconic?

But who is the Writer and what is Written?
Who is the Painter and what is his mission?
On the canvas or on the page
Do I want a mirror and not a portrait?

Who knows? In poetry or in a sketch
The aim must be for something essential -
But never The Truth, no no no, for that
We'd all need a much sharper pencil !
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.
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