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Shahlaa Medina Mar 2019
I stain myself on you
Hold onto your every imprint
Attempt permanence in your mind
Vivid thoughts you stole

Tainted brushes of colour
Mould myself to fit your image
Became a blank canvas
Though I know too well

I am watercolour
I wash off
In world full of temporary people be art.
Eleanor Rigby Jul 2016
i know you're tired
the world got me weary, too


-- Watercolour
Shaine Fraz Jun 2016
How fortunate
Our color blends unintentially,
Wildly with thoughts bleeding outside the lines what have we started: again

And again I stroke
And again you absorb
And again this easel-- summoned
And again your vellum-- softened

Perched on a stool,
Vibrant as mangos --ripening
I chose you, the spectrum
Unknown to most

The only museum I go to.
© 2016 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
Scarlet Niamh May 2016
Some people are born
With crystals in their eyes
And hope in their skies
Of blue and green watercolour dreams.

No such shimmering exists
In here. The glimmer
Of past wonder has long since
Been destroyed by fear of existing.
~~ Watercolour dreams of being alive, dancing in the rain, hoping to survive.
Sunshine goodbyes disperse in the wind, dancing in light and dying tonight. ~~
Ethan Moon Jun 2015
Clouds seep into
The blue expanse like
Coffee cream, watercolour
Paint me an image
Leave stains on my eyes when
Holes of light poke the canvas
Black coffee, you keep me awake
Cerulean forever, black infinity
Affinity for sugar, sweet embrace
Stars leak brewed rain on a  
Cafe window
Charlie Mar 2015
we loved like watercolour
i guess it ran too fast

10w
Liz Apr 2014
The nightingale gives way
to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms
overhead among the early watercolour
skies.

I hear a blue-*** (or robin) whistling it's tune
through the bulbs which rise bouncing
from the rippling sea of soil,
growing in seamless swathes beneath
the leaves silken pink.

The sun dapples through, reflecting
a rosy hue into the glass
dew drops fast melting
into the thirsty earth, and peeps
over the treetops before
gradually bowing his glinting head.

Old daffodils turn russet
in the golden day
and wrinkle
as the clouds blush.
Another one of the first poems I have written. I just love spring!
R K Hodge Apr 2014
Place silhouette pieces or outlines of my heart in thirty or more envelopes.
Paste each one with a new soft paintbrush which clean cream bristles. Push them into torn up fragments of clean new watercolour paper. The sharp edges feel through onto the wooden table leaving mistaken, accidental grooves. Glimmers of sawdust are ****** up into the pockets of your lungs, where they contaminated and will permanently sit.
It was a small heart, the colour of grey sky reflected on seas and carried in bloated raindrops. The texture of diamond. Carved up as easily as wax by a blunt butter knife.
The envelopes are neatly labelled with white tailors chalk powders.

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