#brushstroke
A bare canvas cannot grace the gallery,
and solely a vacant amphitheatre applauds the painters
who refrain from staining their fingers,
the ones who shudder at just the flawed tint,
rage at one stray stroke,
and wince when colours slightly choke.
But when the palette drains the last drop of paint,
a canvas clad in imperfect hues
remains superior to the isolated one drawing in blues.
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 12:26 PM UTC
She is the unsung lyrics,
the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together.
When one plucks the lyre of her heart
melancholy melody soothes another heart.
She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors.
Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn
or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels.
At times she's vibrant
with her colors high on hue
and at times she is dim and quite.
She is contoured with passion;
whirlwind of colors
coaxing the brushstroke
as she is canvassed.
She is the evocative strokes
of a tempestuous soul
of curious contrast;
an exquisit chaos.
She is the raw,
broken tiles pieced together
into a mosaic
s intricate masterpiece like picasso's.
Her body
Her soul
is constantly moulding
sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.
She is an album;
a gallery.
She wasn't built to validate
to be understood
and loved by all
She's supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.
For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth
and a beautiful ambiguity.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC