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Cress Rosario May 2014
Brushes and paints can do a lot of pictures
Images inside his head that was once captured
It can speak for a million of smiles
It can reveal us thousands of lies

Even paintings has its own secrets
Hid by the one who passionately paints it
If we could dive through that canvas
We would know the story he wants to tell us
As an artist and a painter, I want to know unseen stories inside every painters hid in their works. We paint for a reason. It's either we are inspired, hurt, thinking too much, fantasize of something, delighted, or we want to wake up the world.
Cné Aug 2017
Fragmented lives entangled
but asunder in our journey
as our paths cosmically connect
in a romance of the arts

And who's to say what's real
to touch or deeply feel
what will truly last
or simply where to start

So I’ll
paint you alla prima
as I feel you playing me
in warm colors of merging ardor
a wet blending of artistry
my brush strokes of your body
painted in my mind
of impressions blushed in passion
in hues I can’t describe

Suspended in the moment
floating on a breeze
I revel in this picture painted music
almost in disbelief, unthinking…
knowing every nuance of our love
found only in our dreams

Like children in parallel play
I’ll finger the keys
and slip the locks
of all your orchestrations
filling the walls
of my concerts halls
with deep
splattered tones
in pinks and blues
the hues
that forever
bind us

And we’ll not look back
nor forward
but hang here in the moment
to display our
Painted Song
in the eyes
of giggly children
both doing
our own thing
together
on a string
curated
A collaboration with Howard Hilde
https://hellopoetry.com/u693528/
He was art; unparted with his
pens, and brushes. He blushed
at your compliments, for it
was just a way to keep
from losing his pose to
sanity, a dainty piece rocking
against his wall,
making him
stay together
just one more
   day-
Art!
All feedback is appreciated
In love with Gwen Stacy
When in stasis


Cannot let go of the old neighborhood charm until?

In love with Mary Jane
                  When the mind takes off*

Now, I become the hero Spiderman yet a problem?

     * *She leaves, no Mary Jane
                        And the symbiote, VENOM


Comes along in angry mind of the hero spurned?

Stuck in webs
anger as Man
         Hero no words


Comes along in angry mind of the hero spurned?

I want to do something widcha'
something makes her mad
I want to do something widcha'
something makes him Mad.


I want to do something widcha'
some thing? *

Vicki Kralapp Aug 2018
Art, unborn,
aches to find form;
to manifest itself.
Within me it screams,
while those around
remain deaf to its cry.

It claws to free itself
from mortal chains,
restless to share its vision
with the world;
to tell its story
in verse and beauty.

This art within,
impatient, cannot wait.
It struggles to find
its voice
within my finite days
and world.

Until at last,
like a volcano,
unable to restrain that voice,
it erupts,
and my art flows out,
spilling onto paper.

The words and images
become solid,
taking form,
giving birth to the art within.
Thus, completing me,
quieting the cry inside.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
sir humbug Jun 2018
the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised


and so the job,
our work,
begins
Zowie Georgia Jan 2013
Pretending nothing's wrong
her rage walks through her feet,
spiralling up to the expression on her face,
and the lack of.
A clown with many faces she is
but smiling now lacks feeling
because her happiness left
and only questions remain:
Does he still love her?

In her yearnings for an embrace
her arms are still unable to open,
as though her affections are preserved
to memories that cannot be bettered
because she's scared to be vulnerable.

Now they sit awkwardly,
though the longing of a touch lingers somewhere.
A distant look through an embellished picture
now a reminder of the connection they knew so well.

Met by her resistance before,
he fears more rejection,
through this frustration he shouts about life,
how he feels less attractive,
the mirror he too would drown in
if coughing didn't keep him afloat.

Breathing eachother's frustration
the atmosphere now speaks a foreign tongue,
the words that were once easily said  
now relics in the air.

His eyes well up when nobody can see,
because the love he feels for her hurts him inside.
Her anger hurts more everytime she ingores him,
and she can no longer dicipher who's suffering more.

What do you do
when Love's penetrated with too much power,
too much illusion?
What is to come
when the expression of One's divinity is too stubborn to say
**I am sorry
JV Beaupre May 2016
"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
It's a learning painting. I want to see if I can handle all those layers of transparency and quirky reflections.

"But she has a set of phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle.

"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings symbolize things?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? I had an idea, but it really wasn't very deep.

"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise.

"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality and interpreting, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'?

"I don't like your message."*
OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.
On the other hand, I once painted an agricultural scene based on a photo from the 1930s that I thought carried a social message. Most people wanted to know what kind of tractor it was.
E Aug 2018
Live in poetry
Hold unto novelty
Never settle
Never just be
**** being Content
Sadness, emptiness, happiness, despair, love, hatred, wonder
They are all colours
Why paint in black and white when you've got the whole
spectrum?
Feel.
Is a life of torment,
nothing seems quite right
nothing is quite wrong
Everything is inbetween,
a purpose or
a song.

Serapis
Pinochle
Playing Cards
Hard Chuckle


Serapis
Pinochle
Playing Cards
Hard Chuckle


HuGadarn
The laughing God of tricks
in this age of vanishing dreams
and crying ghosts
I find myself drawn again and again
an undying connection
to this work of art
so out of time upon its creation
as to be an endless fascination for me
so unlike the artist
this suffering soul
who's immense love and anguish
for the less fortunate
coupled with a talent too immense
for one man
created a burden that weighed upon his shoulders
and his heart like a million captured tears
then once upon a beautiful dream
or perhaps just a clever thought or a baby's smile
a brief respite from the pain
he created the contradiction of his lifetime
as if to say to all that may come to know him
through what history dictates
'You see...I was not crazy!'
and The Smoking Skull
was born
I have some connection to this painting that I cannot explain...perhaps that is my skeleton in a past life...(grin)
Cress Rosario Jun 2014
I thought of many pictures in my head
And in every book that I have read
I looked at the horizon
To look for an inspiration

I closed my eyes slowly
I skimmed images thoroughly
Then one light suddenly flickered
Like a giant glint of a light bulb

As I opened my eyes,
I saw a wooden table of mess
Mess made by used paints
Clutter from paintbrushes

Finishing a work of art
Is like fulfilling a life's half part
This is a story of my life
A story of an artist's life
Eric Pon Jul 2018
Im a poet and a painter
And a meandering musician

And I've hopes that somehow my
Art'll pay for my tuition.
I know it's not about the facts
Or my intuition
I wont believe all that I'm shown
For I know its superstition.
And you know Im not a doctor
Or even a practition
But heres some medicine myself perscribed
To help with this condition.
The dizzyness and neasuea
And the most dishonest vision..
May this writing reach my soul
In its keen perscision
And help me make every right move
Help make the right decision.

When there's so many unfathomable things we are
I choke on that recognition.
george glass Dec 2015
A man once told me
He felt as if he had created me
From scratch, a muse
Conceived by invention,
Rather than the precision of my blood
or the tiny cosmos within my marrow;
He was mine,
But did not belong to me

The path of sirendom
Is paved with gilded lilies,
Soft flesh, and quiet angles
If you let them,
You can drift on through
Your feet hovering three inches above the soil
Saturated ripe with fertility,
Easier than breathing

But there will always be
At least nine of you
In every patch of every field
Preserved in light
The quicksand of reason, immortalized
Delicate whispers convince you
What a lovely work of artistry
An inspiration, the birth of genius
But you are only the vessel
Left empty

But I have never
Belonged to anyone,
No square of grass
Lush enough to rest my head
on a practiced lap
I was not an island to discover;
Sprung from beneath the Mariana,
I was built from the deep place
No pedestal to extend
The unhinge of my reaching arms

I took the long way up
Scratching through earth, long dead
No fruit, carefully arranged
No marble, heavily lidded
The flowers collapsed,
Like your idea of Woman,
To linseed stain
A smashed sunrise
It wasn’t god, but myself
That I met on the other side
Allen James Aug 2018
Her gospel beauty rises early,
Yet always late to gratify,
With eyes that gleam with intuition,
They burn the shelter where thoughts hide,
Her creativity runs circles,
Around these worthless, old commandments,
And so new love approaches me,
The way a painter does a canvas.
Ezzah Saleem Jan 2018
A sailor and an artist on boat.
They fell for each other in the middle of the oceans, under the sky.
Directions lost and silence felt,
The sailor kept moving,
The artist kept painting,
The sailor watched the lanterns rise in sky
The artist then painted the scene on the canvas.
For nothing more mattered to them
Then time and place they met,
The heavenly love created a beautiful memory of that of them,
That could not be erased.
A love without letters and flowers.
A journey of memories, that would be with them always and forever.
That is how a sailor and an artist met.
I am a colour of thoughts.'

Flying in the shimmering
deep of imagination.

A creator of abstract doggerels,
a whirling feeling of amazement
into fragments of creativity.

For each fragment of me
am in each piece I craft,
I wildly pace to my tune,
and I passionately dance
to my own beat.

- Artist
Kimi Sanchez Dec 2018
i am not a curated list of
the top songs,
the best songs,
critically-acclaimed songs,
picked with so much care
too much care
the others cease to matter
i am the songs
known and niched
borne out of an artist's dream
i exist so they could dance
in the kitchen at 3 am
i might not expand the world
in which i live
but i will persist
in careless dancers
dancers like me
the dancers after us
to my boy scouts, to 7 more years. kamsahamnida.
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