#theartist - Hello Poetry

I clipped my wings so I can drink with sailors, Walk amongst them on my frail feet, To be man is all I ever wanted, I chugged it all and yet it made me sick.

0

Apr 21, 2022

Apr 21, 2022 at 4:27 PM UTC

adio

The drunken pigeon

I clipped my wings so I can drink with sailors, Walk amongst them on my frail feet, To be man is all I ever wanted, I chugged it all and yet it made me sick.

4

You look at life with rose tinted glasses. Everything Is a coincidence or a stroke of luck or fate Nothing is planned. Everything is up to chance Everything is possible Nothing is what you want it to be Responsibility is scary and exhausting Recklessness is exciting and exhilirating You are stuck with these glasses Unable to return them They are imprinted on your skin They own your scent and your essence They become you.

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Feb 22, 2020

Feb 22, 2020 at 2:21 AM UTC

KNS

The artist

You look at life with rose tinted glasses. Everything Is a coincidence or a stroke of luck or fate Nothing is planned. Everything is up to chance Everything is possible Nothing is what you want it to be Responsibility is scary and exhausting Recklessness is exciting and exhilirating You are stuck with these glasses Unable to return them They are imprinted on your skin They own your scent and your essence They become you.

17

A lingering melody from a metallic vibrating needle machine, sings in my eardrums. Thoughts become art, melted in Ink. Descending into my epidermis. As pain travels and escapes through my body. My face molds and breaks into minuscule painful multiple aches of gestures within every ardent minute. As the artist cuts into the brain of fiction. Dipping his metallic paint brush machine into it's blood. And carving aesthetic realism into his human canvas.

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Mar 21, 2016

Mar 21, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC

BaezJo

The Artist and The Human Canvas

A lingering melody from a metallic vibrating needle machine, sings in my eardrums. Thoughts become art, melted in Ink. Descending into my epidermis. As pain travels and escapes through my body. My face molds and breaks into minuscule painful multiple aches of gestures within every ardent minute. As the artist cuts into the brain of fiction. Dipping his metallic paint brush machine into it's blood. And carving aesthetic realism into his human canvas.

10