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Erian Rose Apr 21
Her heart painted waves
Deeper than her rising flames
Sadie Grace Apr 12
She paints with watercolors because they bleed all over the paper
like the feelings coming out of her mind bleed all over her arms
like the words shouted at her bleed all over her heart
She wished one day to paint with acrylics
they were simple and quiet
they colored inside the lines
they didn’t bleed
but who cares anymore?
She’s already numb to it all
By the sea,
I watched as
the thoughts
within my mind
faded with the white
effervescence, I am
wrapped in a cashmere
blanket as I drink my
cafe au lait, the wind
tousled my hair as I
contemplated the
silence of the hour,
within its watercolor
becoming the gentle,
soft soul of mine
seeking to understand
the meaning of love,
even though,
I am misunderstood,
and so, I sit here,
content as a dandelion,
fragile, yet still yearning
to dream.
Nick Stiltner Aug 2018
The poles have shifted, the tide retreats from the shore!
Shanty lines revised and rehearsed
upon a crumpled paper covered with speckled dirt,
to make a lasting impact at the foot of the blackened hearse.

Does she hear me, this woman trapped in portrait?
The frame it yields and shakes mid rotation,
teetering back and forth as a compass without
magnetism, in circles as a ship lost to the starless night.

The painted woman with her knowing smile bores
her eyes into mine, her flashing irises projecting
from her world into ours, from her reality into mine.

My eyes blur and a vision dances for me,
a water color flow, with daisy tunes lost
in a shimmering and shifting mist,
swirling colors bear together, mixing and connecting,
rubbing and repelling, crossing my eyes in its intoxicating motion.

My mouth slacks and my shoulders sag,
lost in the trance of this melting scene,
and it’s dragging pull.

Excited I ran to show them, to show what I saw,
but they didn’t listen, to them I speak in gibberish.
I smirk and feel my face begin to melt, my ears drooping and my nose falling, the drops fall
and a puddle begins to form under my feet,
before dribbling slowly down the drain on the floor,
In a watercolor swirl.
Lillian May Jul 2018
painting
there are so many different kinds and
so many different artists with respective training
let me tell the story of one
she liked to let go
she didn't like lines
the cloudiness of watercolor she found no woe
flowing with ease
the water went where it pleased
without tedious thought
it took the 'pain' out of painting
she was able to feel the art and the thoughts and the feelings
that art should inflict on a soul
Julia Jun 2018
Our first summer together,
you drove us to the local beach
to escape reality,
and be at peace within
another world you
promised we could call
our own.

We blasted alive the 80s
through a sharpie-marked
cassette tape
with no shame,
and we allowed  
everything we left behind
to disappear,
like a passing highway sign.

Such a beautiful day it was:  
the ocean glistened,
as if God had scattered diamonds
along its surface.

Within minutes
of taken in the scenery,
never did I wish to leave.
I had prayed to Jesus
to, please,
allow me to replay
moments of this day
on repeat.

But then I heard
my mother in my mind,
saying,
as she did when I was
six years of age —
to be cautious when
holding on to anything, or one,
too tightly.
For, like sand, she had said,
they can easily slip
through your fingers,
and crush our hearts faster
than any wave.

Hold on loosely, I was told.

Understand now, darling,
why not once did I
ask for the time.
And the reason, when
our hands interlocked
my fingers did not grip as hard  
that their knuckles go white,
as if we would lose one another
in the breeze
while we stood admiring the sun
exhale a yawn
of watercolors,
before greeting the moon
with a subtle kiss goodnight,
and us, a whisper of  
farewell.

Never did I believe,
driving home,
we would follow her lead
instead of awakening to a new day
hoped to be real.
alexa Mar 2018
she is a charcoal sketch.
she is dark,
jagged at the edges, rough.
she is only a first draft--
soon the pencil marks will be erased
and the best is yet to come.
not only is she a watercolor painting--
pastels bleeding together until
you can't find where
each emotion stops and starts--
but also the dark Sharpie lines
etched in arcs on said painting,
a beautiful composition of
daydream and nightmare.
she is cracked clay.
she crumbles easily, powder
breaking off from her sculpture
in such a way that
no amount of glue will ever reattach.
she may be broken and
cracked in all the wrong places but
sometimes imperfections add beauty
to an otherwise ordinary masterpiece.
trinity Jan 2018
light and loose
bending and flowing and spreading
beautiful,
thoughtful,
meaningless,
my watercolor words.
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