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A ghost of a house is a blueprint
A soul of a blueprint is a sketch
A sketch's spirit is in vision
And lemme tell you, your vision's quite a stretch
A guy I know has a tendency to develop things and plan for stuff he has no way of ever accomplishing. This little nugget js written in about 2 minutes.
Ylzm May 13
Prose, a photo
Poetry, pencil sketch,
                                       in five lines.

We see not with eyes but heart
We hear not with ears but heart
We think not with mind but heart
                                                           ­   Helen Keller,
                                                                                      wise beyond sight.

And we feel not with heart but in the guts.
Whisperer Apr 4
I try not to write about you

But whenever these hands get hold of a pen

They start sketching your beauty and flaws
i draw you but i cant draw

i draw you, but its rough

i draw my estimations

erase. draw. erase.

you're still here. erase. you're still here.

i draw you and tear up the paper

there you are, in the distance

i draw back a bow

and see the lead smudge across your chest
Arisa Mar 3
I ****** the stage with silence so the audience anticipates the articulation of words that soon spill out of my mouth.

The show lights blind my eyes so all I can see are headless ghosts sitting in rows, neatly compact in a spiritual communion.

My mind stutters, body shudders, yet the line is plain to see as it was painted on my lips - ready to perform, ready to be spoken.

Narration courses through my lungs to produce cornered speech, creating an introductory-zone for the others to encroach behind me

And there we were, separated into our own character beams while I stood with shallow confidence at the forefront.

Though I'm not a main lead,
or a side character,
or a set piece,
I am the narrator.
I carry the weight of the story,
And I carry the ears of those who listen.
I was never an expressive actor, but the small roles I was given at school plays  and home-brewed sketches I was grateful for.
Eberhardt Feb 11
If I sketched an angel without wings
would you be able to tell
she’s an angel?
The sky behind her would be pale yellow
The world below, gray
Like the color of the outline of her frame
I’d describe her face as angelic
Which is supposed to give it away
But maybe you’d only say she looks nice
astrid Feb 8
I lay down
your creamy expanse
unto the marble surface,
as if milk made love with
the stars in the galaxies.

I write you out
as pleasant simmer
of pulverized charcoal
and bloated glycerine.

I splatter and spread
fine dusts of Carica
in temperate motion
to touch the sleek edges
of the vanilla branches
on your person.

I hold and dip
my feathery digit
amongst rose water
to grasp the flowers
that frames your face,
like light morganites
that hail from the west.

I cast you off
as the blue sea engulfs
the life from the waters
where life swims with
stable beginnings
and whirlwinds of stories.

I finish you
by letting molten pearls
lither your dark onyx orbs,
surrounded by your lakes of gelatinous almond,
like shooting comets
finding rest on land,
as lightning's faint and close
but never quite touch.

I made you
with intrinsic detail and rawness
to give you the life
that you may never have.
may these words show its own form of art.

090219; 07:29 --- revison due to incompleteness from original file
memoona kazmi Jan 28
people say,
the person you sketch,
is the person you love,
if that is the parameter to measure love,
let oceans be my ink,
and skies be my pages,
they will not be enough,
but all they say is true,
then sit next to me,
and let me sketch you
Batool Jun 2018
There she was
lying still on the couch
posing the best she could
with her gaze transfixed
deep into his eyes
basking in the thick silence
that surronded them
the only sound of his charcoal lead
stroking the paper could be heard
His every stroke defined her curve
a little better
His rough hands blending the lines
staining her soul a beautiful shade of charcoal
She could feel him
making sure strokes
thus bringing the woman on paper
to life
she felt her heart slipping ...
slipping from her hand
and on to the paper
the color of her skin fading
and reappearing on his masterpiece
the fullness of her lips
was nothing
as the beauty on his canvas
now owned it
the last thing she felt
was the twinkle of her eyes leaving
adding the final touch
to his creation
and it was when
he broke the eye contact
taking with him
the beauty he sketched  
he left ...
not knowing that
He left the masterpiece behind
on the couch .... !!
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