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jul Jun 2018
words bleed from my fingertips onto the stainless steel sink
and i watch them spill down the drain
like old coffee that has sat in a mug for days.
words that have been romanticized; over used but yet slips through my lips; i cannot help myself but let regret seep through my face.

they spill into my lap and i intertwine my fingers which are touching upon the threads that struggle to untangle themselves.
i struggle to untangle them and this for some reason scares me.
it scares me that i cannot control the shaking of my hands like
a rising volcano that suppressed its screams.
it scares me that i knotted the slithering snakes in my lap and which
hisses through my ears; the echoing sound of myself could hear the fear.

and as i think further upon the words that slipped through my chapped lips, i realize that i'm a silly child after all;
unable to control. unable to foresee. unable to be loved.
i am a silly child asking for silly things.

i let the words i said ring through the air and touch upon his skin.
his bones went frigid for a second but he continued to love me.

it was then when i realized that he had a different concept of love.
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Lipstick kisses,
we're both wearing red.
I motion her over and onto our bed.
Blood red smeared across our lips.
I keep her enticed, I straddle her hips.
Seductively playing,
I'm touching my lips.
Long acrylic nails,
for us never fails.
I show her a ***** and
she gently wails.

She's waiting,
my sweetheart,
I lust her so much.
We ****, we're on fire
and I wonder,
which of us holds the power.
I, in all honesty is hoping it's her,
'cause then I'll continue this life
in her beautiful blur.

Poetry by Kaydee.
A girl in love with another girl.
Zeyea Jul 2018
sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.

(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)

she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.
Josh Apr 4
You were born near the warm ocean,
grew up around there,
With your clear acrylic smile
and sun-kissed blonde hair

I, the winter cold
More north than I can remember,
We met that day you visited,
a brisk chill, that December

We drank and danced,
while the years passed over
Argued and grew apart,
our greatest fears, now sober

My memories of you, once treasured
Now, faded
as sun deprived lands complain,
Forever, jaded
ren Aug 2016
Hearing the fuzz of the static between the lines as you laugh nervously: It feels like waking up to a child who has found your acrylic paints, who is brushing hasty strokes of posey on your cheeks -

Like half-heartedly composing your poise on a river rock, holding your center, knowing if you lose your steady, you have to fall,

Fall into something that feels like first breath of air you breathe when you step off a train, knowing yesterday is gone, knowing the person you are now is ready to embark.
The poet
is the artiste,
who uses acrylic
in the form of words,
the pen
is his mahl stick,
to write is to paint,
the reader's mind
is his canvas,
where the magnificence
of his works is manifested
In poetry lies the greatest form of art
Mohamed Nasir Nov 2017
This trinket this tiny beads of fashionable
Necklace
Of stones not acrylic or rhinestones but from
Rocks
May not be seen in trinket shops or in some
Glass case
Rocks of the Alps looked like little trivial chalks
Now
In one of my traveling that I found the trinket
For her
The small stones tugged at my longing heart
At home her eyes alighted she ask "can I have
This father?"
And I bought her this trinket piece of tiny art
This trinket fashioned from boulders of rocks
To obsidian glistening pearls round her neck
She wore it well matched her hair her pretty
Little locks
Cost me a little fortune but with this tiny trinket
I can looked back
Jade Sep 2018
V. Ethereal

Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.

My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,  
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).

Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.

Star light,

{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}

star bright,

{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}

first star I see tonight,

{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}

I wish I may,

{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}

I wish I might,

{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}

have this wish I wish tonight--

to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.

Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:

Lovely.

Ethereal.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
Bella Oct 2017
I wear no sunglasses that Shield my
   eyes from the realities
       of this world
that put a Valencia filter over the
    things that I see or a sensor
        over the things that I hear.
I do not push the news stations
    through a small strainer only
        allowing the ”easy to
             handle”  stories to reach my
                 cup for me to consume.
I know that red is this world's favorite
    acrylic,
black it's favorite oil paint,
and blue it's favorite watercolor.
the painting of our world has red
    splattered across every
        building and seeping out of every
            wrist,
black in every sidewalk crack, every
     alleyway, and across
         every, screaming, mouth,
and blue welling in every eye.
I know this, but I have ripped the tape
    from my mouth, bandaged my
        wrists, and wiped my eyes
I have become comfortable.
opening my mouth
Like pulling the trigger of a gun
Aimed at anyone trying to Paint those
    colors back into my life
shooting their thoughts down making
    pastel bullet holes so the light can
         shine in.
I have become too comfortable.

I only come to this realization when I
    hear gunshots coming from a hand
        who does not know what it is
              holding
when I hear seemingly Innocent
     Voices say
“Well, why does it even matter,
if you've given a blow-job before, what's the hesitation to doing it  
     again?”
“ Because I said no.”
“ But you've already done it, before.”

I've told you, I do not wear filtered
     glasses.
but sometimes I forget that people are
     programmed with black paint on
          their brushes ready to cover over
               your mouth again.
I remember that as soon as I learned
     to rip the tape from my mouth
I realize that I can't just watch them
      bring the tape closer until they
           push it over my lips
I have to scream, as soon as I see it,
Because that is what my mouth is for.
And I have to fight to keep it of,
because that is what my hands and
      wrists are for.
And I have to look- not like the prey
      trying to stay out of sight,
but like a warrior with eyes like
       swords
and a mouth...
like a gun.
Dear E--,

Past sewing gold
we walked
in the vacant
invisibilities.

In a hush-throated hall
we saw a Last Supper
in acrylic blocks,
breaks of the past.

Wooden masks
deviled the olive wall,
& we found tiles that
turned out our hands.

None of this sustained
you when the sun dropped
beams like pick-up-sticks,
aces of heat.

It didn't sustain you
when my friends
split like copper stills
across the breaded table.

The grand oil lamp
& the sea chant
became ash daubs
of noose memory

when I returned
to your dark room.
I'm sorry for every
thing I couldn't repair.

Every whorl
& loop in my hands
held you tight
as boas.

By the time I felt
your breath settle
into the delta of sleep
things had half-healed.

Still, I trembled
with sharp dreams.
In the morning,
I was yours again -

as I always was.
This is my apology.
Yours,
Evan
FlipThePoet Jan 3
It's weird
I never like it
never understand it
why would they have it?
it's weird
it's long, in fact too long!
it looks uncomfortable
it looks heavy.
it's weird
and expensive
no lasting value,
like a day it shortens
and slowly fades.
it's weird
but does have some
sort of elegances to it.
A fashion statement I guess.
It use to be weird
Acrylic nails.
I can't fully relate to it
but I'm beginning to see its beauty
now, it's weird that it's not weird anymore
it's weird, but this was how I thought about acrylic nails never liked it but slowly it began to grow on me. So, in this poem, I tried to slowly regress from not liking acrylic nail to somewhat beginning to see its beauty. I tried!
Evan Stephens Jul 16
Call me yours
in this country
of dusk.

Call me yours
in the blotted lilac,
in the acrylic
evening, in the
time-plagued
water mirror.

You know that
I will kiss you
& break the
honeycombs,
raise the sheets
as midnight sails
while rectangles
dismount in the
orange and
a gibbous moon
dwells in the
nettles of new
constellations.

Call me yours
in the earliest
hours when
the forgotten
fireworks drip ash
like broken snow.

Call me yours
when the whales
of morning begin
to stitch their
broadside song,
each to each,
& you raise a
tent of light
with your smile.

You know that
I will kiss you
among the
almonds of smoke,
the yellowed books,
the soft repairs of
yesterday.

Call me yours:
I know it already
but the sound
is a high garden
ploughed with sugar.
Eight years old or so
I'm condemned to a joke
but I never understand the punchline
I just figure it's all a hoax.
Padded cells and restrained holds.
Perspex acrylic windows
render my spit useless.
My captors are fully grown
but I've seen the breadth of their moral compass
They will fold on it shortly now, I know they will.
Though they never do.

I'm fifteen years old give or take
when I lose my first child.
It was never born, but I know I wanted it.
I pretend I am not sure because
there's a lot of heat and pressure
cooking my heart, engulfing my head.

Crying over the phone to my girlfriend
a painful necessity, something my soul needs.
We are too young, careless, reckless,
confused and surrounded by ogling eyes.
I haven't had a lump of hot coal in my throat before
but it sure feels like I have when I try to speak.
Especially with my parents.

Pause, rewind
I'm six years old,
my younger sister is four,
my youngest is two.
My dad enters my play room.
Proceeds to tell me he's leaving home.
He won't be living with us anymore
but he'll always be my dad and
I'll always be his favourite and only son.

Dry my eyes and fast forward, please.
A little bit past devastation,
we'll stop somewhere around reckoning.
It's right after desperation.
I am fifteen years old again, some time has passed
since my unborn child left its mother
as nothing more than matter and blood.
The mother has left me.
Probably because
she was in even more pain than I
and wanted to confide and find comfort
anywhere else but in me.
I never could heal the wounds I helped to create.

It's time for work experience, I'm sixteen soon.
That's practically an adult in the UK
I get to work Queens' College May ball.
Maybe this time everything will be okay.
Shadowing sound technicians.
Sneakily drink the free *****,
since I always look much older.
Sun rises, I'm drunk and my mouth is dry.
I think I'll walk home.

Mum picks me up, I don't even remember why.
My hometown is only five miles across
I've travelled the best of it and then some.
Yet my gaze never left the sky.
I want to escape myself so badly I leap from the moving car.
I'm crying in the car one minute,
I'm crying on a roundabout of a dual carriageway the next.
The police arrive and mum's crying now.
Begging never worked before but this time it does.
The police officer says something about section one three six
and I am taken.

Whilst I wish I could have realised sooner,
I think I get the message now.
Perhaps I was never meant to achieve great things.
Or ever meant to find happiness in my life.
It could be that I was never meant to be anything
other than what I am and what I am
is the embodiment of sadness.
Unhappiness is tangible around me.
You can feel it, touch it and see it.
I can taste it and smell it, I breathe it.

It's me.
Me and me alone, surrounded by faces but alone.
The thought of loneliness is lonely indeed.
When thoughts are just emotions' greed
and it's our own expectations of life
that make it harder to succeed.
I've travelled cold, a road with no milestones.
Only icy tipped hurdles that are mountains
and I can't catch my sadness,
and I can't catch my breath.
blackbiird Dec 2018
Your lips are acrylic paint and my body is the canvas.
Together, we create a masterpiece.
Yazad Tafti Jun 12
here's a picture
look in to the infrastructure of the fine frame
the outer border allures inward
vertices crosshair a centroid
the fine pigmentation due to stencil work and rich bold dabbing of acrylic paints merge to formulate images
blending, mashing, complementation of colours
azure, zyon, topaz, vermillion
i see a puddle and my interpretation is my reflection
i see a disemboweled figure who's ****** features exclaim "out of proportion"
bold petal ears, swelling rose cheeks, wrinkled eyes and a protruding thorn of a nose
i see beauty as the people in the painting smile back and joyfully prance
we laugh together as we see the same thing...people stuck in a frame watching the work of others pass them by as they remain idle for their idols
i'm thinking within the box
A Sermon for the Flawed

Blessed are the visions and fantasies of the morally compromised.
they manifest like a Genesis Garden.
With fruit bitten knowledge from their own meta-modernist novel.

Blessed are the incandescent
it is they who know that life is infinite... if only in increments.

Blessed are the painful lamentations, one day the world will know your poetry

Blessed are the heartbreakers, they give gravity to the pain that pulls ink to pen

Blessed be the traumatized artists, they who stand in upright in eternal defiance

in victory over their traumatizer
in victory through canvas
in victorious acrylic paint masterpieces (((a rage in refutation))).  

Blessed are the autumnal attractions,
an April Renaissance, through frost bitten winters, for those that are godly and the struggling sinners  

Blessed are the stolen hallway glances, galvanized in the explosive immersion of instant attraction...

Blessed are those who
engage
in a breathtaking taboo
surrender
.
Written meticulously upon
shards of glass
from a broken moral compass.
Sukanya Basu Sep 2018
My mind fathoms what art is,
Paint in yellow or green
War is a paint
Man is a brush,
Children of art
Behold colours!
Flag rise of enemy comrades
painting the art of a body
The woman, the art, the screen, the scent, the who?
WHO, I ASK IS YOUR INSPIRATION MY FRIEND?
MY FOE?
Is it art?
Or is it the dead bodies in the end?
Man, i beg you, stop this war
Art for art, i beg you time and again
Like waves of screen, make art,
make blood of acrylic not blood of veins
Or the countries and borders and
Children in vain
Christ i beg all in art's name
Give me the glory of art,
Not the glory of fame.

— The End —