KRM Mar 6
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of topless women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?
A dream I had of speaking with Andy Warhol
elizabeth Feb 22
smeared acrylic
plastered onto my cheek,
i move a finger
into the paint.

|that’s wasteful,
my senses admonished.

but the yellow blonde paint
was cool
against the heat of warm blood.

observing the pocket-sized sphere,
i smudged the ball of paint
between my dwaal thumb
and forefinger.

my skin, flavescent.
i, a canvas.

i smiled with a sort of
levity.

perhaps
there was a reason
van gogh ate the yellow paint.
A Feb 20
Sometimes people don't want to let go,
Sometimes they beg to stay,
Sometimes they want to be on earth,
Their death makes them sad, but there is no other way,
And no matter where they go, heaven or hell,
Their sorrow follows their souls, even on a bright new day,
And when their sobbing specters arrive at eternity's gate,
Their hearts are still and emptier still,
And with their emptiness they must wait.
Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's painting of the same name.
allie Aug 2017
I can still feel his lips on mine,
pressing down, hungry.

His words,
"Might as well get it over with,"
Create a myth.

I've kissed someone.
A boy, come one.

After it, I felt
Like I had delt
With a welt
As sad as time,
With such anger, it should be a crime,
And now the search for the wall to climb.

I kissed someone.
It doesn't mean I'm a slut.
last night was fun and exciting, but so many feelings and assholes: anger, van, sadness, guilt...
Liz Carlson Jul 2017
I wrote you a note at 5 am,
you read it,
with no reply.
Before you left you asked for a picture of the two of us.
I made a joke and we laughed through the pictures.
But all that I could think about was
how it felt to have your arm around me.
It was holding me,
as I held you.
I wish I could go back to that moment,
but it's gone.

When we said our goodbyes,
it hurt so much.
I wanted to tell you so many things,
but time was running out.
I hugged you so many times,
you thought it was strange.

As soon as you walked away,
my heart felt empty;
I missed your presence already.
We touched hands as you drove away
in that big green van.
I ran after you,
as did other friends.
But you were gone.

I can still see your eyes gazing into mine,
and your oh so sweet smile;
but you're gone.
Nowhere to be seen.
Paul Jones Jul 2017
Water fills the cup.     If it is too strong,
its flow will either      break it or bounce back.
14:30 - 08/07/17

State of mind: focused; contemplative.
Perspective: empirical; philosophical.

Thoughts: from observations - of turning the tap on too much, by mistake, and watching the water swill around the concave of the cups base, only to rebound back.

Be patient and gentle and things will gradually sink in.

A metaphor for the mind.

Questions: none.
Dakota Jun 2017
i’m not welcome here
anymore. the ground is
calling calling calling
my name in your voice.
i grab yellow roses-
did you know Van Gogh
ate yellow paint once?
people said it was because
he thought  it would make
him happy, but he was
trying to kill himself.
i pin the flowers to my dress
because i want something
beautiful to die with me.
god knows i’m not.
i’m coming down to get
you, darling. i hope the concrete
hurts. you’re worth it.
Sophia I May 2017
Stars in paint, crackled glaze
walk the cobbled street with me.
ochre, blue and wizened haze,
A swirling canvas galaxy.

Light my broken dawn, my love
darkened hours, quiet night
bring me all the skies above
and drape the dim and pale moonlight.

Sadness, silence, watered cheeks
sunflowers waving in the dirt
charcoal clouded, ever bleek,
dark storms brew like bruises hurt.

Dewy glass and fired ale
absinthe daydream, starry night
touch my arm, porcelain frail
pale skin and paler light.
Next page