Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The Good Pussy Dec 2014
.
                              Artist
                         Artist Artist
                       ArtistArtistArt
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
                         Artist Artist
              Artist Artist      Artist Artist
          Arist Artist Art  Art Artist Artist
            Artist Artist         Artist Artist
                  Artist                    Artist
M Sargent Mar 2013
The artist is the one who is up all night,
The artist is the one who looks lost,
The artist is the one who fears no tyrant,
Because it just becomes the next piece.

The artist is the one who cries out with a pen,
The artist is the one who finds safety in a brush,
The artist is the one whose enemy is the blank spaces,
Because that's where there is uniformity and potential.

The artist is the one who retorts injustice,
The artist is the one who rips at the seams,
The artist is the one who screams at the world,
Because it seems no one will listen.

But never does that stop the artist,
For the artist is one of persistence,
A never ending fire that burns inside,
A passion that will never die.

Without the artist our world will crumble,
Without the artist our life will go gray,
Without the artist our days would be lonely,
Because that's when the blank spaces win.

It's the color that bursts from the mind,
It's the thought that paints the sky,
It's the music that gives us hope,
Because it's only with the artist we see reason to be alive.
Alex A d r i a n Dec 2017
I am an artist,
Though I cannot paint.
I cannot write a novel.
I cannot act in a film.

Yet I am an artist,
My paintbrush is my razor.
My story is told through my tears.
My film is life and my smile-
is the main character.

I am an artist,
An artist with a dark truth.
A hidden story,
And a made up happy ending.
I am an artist,
An artist that has ran out of space-
for my crimson creativity.
An artist that has cried my last story;
An artist that has pretended for the last day.

I am an artist,
An artist who has done my time,
And has been beaten by sadness.
I am an artist,

An artist who’s art is not appreciated.
An artist who never reach the height of- worlds noticeability,
An artist whose art will die as I do.

I was an artist,
Until my art took over me,
And now – I exist not.
The Wicca Man May 2013
There was once an artist and a poet.

The artist was renowned throughout the land for his sublime skill with the brush, his superb eye for colour, his ability to define the truth of nature with each stroke, bringing the canvas to life in a glorious cacophony of colour. People looked on in awe as he painted, watching the scene come alive as each moment passed. When he put the brush down, there was a hushed silence and many watchers shed a tear at the beauty of his creation.

The poet was also held in the highest esteem. He could captivate an audience with his magical use of words, his lilting rhythms, his passion that created a vivid tapestry in the mind’s eyes of his enthralled listeners. He transported them to wondrous places far beyond the imagination. And when he spoke the last word of the last verse, his audience were silent in their admiration of what they had heard, overcome with the emotion of his words.

Then one day it came to pass that the artist, now grey and of rheumy eye, realised he could no longer paint the vibrant beauty of all that he saw around him. He was distraught at his loss and resigned to die as his very reason for being was lost to him.

The poet too, after these many years, now old and grey succumbed to deafness, no longer able to hear his own voice, so felt no longer able to speak in his rich lilting rhythms to create the wonderful soundscapes and journeys of the imagination his words had done. He too was distraught at his loss and resigned to die as his very reason for being was lost to him.

And it happened that the artist and the poet were in the same town, sitting side by side by the oldest tree, neither aware of who the other was.

A small boy saw them there and with the innocence of a child spoke to them. He spoke first to the artist: “Why do you look so sad?” The artist, hearing the child’s voice but not seeing him, reached out a hand and asked, “Who is that?” The boy replied, “I am but a boy but I know you are sad. Tell me why.” The artist turned his head toward the sound of the boy’s voice and said, “I was a great artist but now my sight is gone and I can no longer paint the beauty of all that there is around me.” The boy then asked him, “What are you doing here?” to which the artist replied, “I am waiting to die as I have no reason to continue living.”

This puzzled the boy. He turned to the poet and asked him, “I am but a boy but I know you are sad. Tell me why.” The poet did not respond because he could not hear the boy speak. The boy tapped the poet on the arm and he looked towards him and the boy repeated his question. The poet could see the boy’s lips move but for him, no sound came out. Yet he discovered he could understand the boy’s words. With huge effort, he spoke although the words were no more than a rasping whisper to the artist and the boy for the poet could not hear his own voice: “I was a great poet but now my hearing is gone and I can no longer hear my voice, I am unable to use the magic of my words to create wonderful worlds of the imagination.” The boy then asked, “What are you doing here?”, to which the poet replied, “I am waiting to die as I have no reason to continue living.”

The boy thought about this for a moment and then a wonderful idea came to him. To the artist he said, “The poet can still see and he has discovered his voice again although he can no longer hear the words he speaks, but you can. His words can describe the wonders of nature that is all around us. Let him use his words and you can paint the images he puts in your mind’s eye.”

And so it was that the artist and the poet worked together as one; the poet speaking aloud, describing the beauty that was all about, and the artist, painting by touch the wondrous scenes from his imagination.

The crowds stood in rapt delight at the poet's words as they were transformed into wondrous images on the artist’s canvas. And the boy stood amongst the throng and smiled.
I’m not sure what to call the style of this story. I suppose fable is the best choice. There is a moral too I think. It was just an idea that came to me and the style, and story just happened. I would welcome your thoughts.
k-s-h Jul 2013
So the clever artist manages to push all her friends away,
And the clever artist decides to distract herself from her plight.
The clever artist goes outside to paint
In the rain.
In the middle of the night.
The clever artist crafts damaged brushstrokes.
And the very clever artist watches them wash away.

The clever artist sends herself mostly blind
As she watches her foggy breath over a flashlight.
The clever artist thinks about the silence that blares,
Despite the music coming from everywhere.
And oh the clever artist!--
Dropped her brush in the dirt.
But she still managed to disguise her hurt..
The artist cleverly insulted the paintbrush in hand;
Clever words, metaphorically meant.

It was then the clever artist ran inside
Her hair dripping from the rain, tangled and wild.
The stupid artist sits down before a page,
Taking her favourite seat.
And writes the worst excuse of a poem ever made.
Becoming the least worthy poet you'll ever meet
The stupid artist can't write,
Nor paint for ****.
And of her friendship skills?
Well, **** it.
BungeeGum Sep 2018
Poet : " Hey peeps"

Singer : "sup"

Artist : " Hiii"

Poet : " I was wondering, its quite intriguing how we are all quite similar , yet different as well "

Artist :  "How so ?"

Poet :  " Well, we all show , some feeling or emotion or portray any message in some sort of form, one way or another "

Singer : "Thats true , I use my voice so that many can hear my lyrics whether cryptic or not "

Poet : True, but you also forgot...

Artist : "Poet does this as well , despite the words on paper for many to read , poet doesn't quite sing in melody , but speaks so that many can hear the words to tell the message "

Poet : " Exactly , thank you Artist "

Artist : " No problem , as for me I neither Sing nor speak , my art paint the words I want to convey in the mind as an image "

Singer : "Yes,Yes, But don't you at times say what your art means , so technically you do speak kinda"

Artist : " Hahaha , *******, yes but I would only say 15-20 per cent of the time , to convey what i'm trying to define "

Poet : " Fair enough but technically poets can do this as well , in fact there is a type of poetry called...

Artist : " Concrete, Yes I know , such a flattering name by the way, hahaha "

Singer : " Hahaha"

Poet : " Anyways! , to add to poetry we need not have to create art , for our message to be visualized "

Singer : " Thats all well and good , however in the rhythmic sway in the melodies of song , I quite literally move people , you could even say the way they dance to my songs to show how it makes them feel , expressing themselves, as well as painting a picture ...."

Poet :  "Hahaha damnnn, are you trying to show your the best ?"

Singer : " Just saying facts , not my fault it might come across as me being the best "

Poet : "Do try and remember us Poets do move those who read or listen to our poetry , they can relate. On the words , they think and meditate plus with those lines an image in there mind they do,  re-create"

Singer : " Really , you just couldn't help not rhyming ? "

Poet : " Don't hate , appreciate.. "

Singer : " Oh gosh... "

Artist : " Hahaha"

Artist : " Don't forget us Artists , our art , can move people , maybe not as physically as you Singer, but we can cause a sway of thoughts for a painting can have a multitude of meanings"

Artist :  " Sometimes it is better not to tell them my definition of the painting, but to see what it means to them and how it makes them feel "

Singer : " Sigh fair enough you got me there... "

Poet : " Its like I said , we are similar in the fact , that we portray something in our own unique act , to wonder and see how the viewer will react , to see the thoughts and feelings in our different dealings... To..."

Singer : " Oh my gosh we get it... No need to rhyme us to oblivion"

Artist : " We all basically show some sort of message just in a different way "

Singer : " See , why couldn't you just say that poet ? "

Poet : " Oh shut up."

Artist ; " Hahaha"
So uhm.. this was an experiment I tried doing poetry in the form of a conversation , not really sure  it tuned out as poetry , nonetheless I hope you do not find to bad  :DA
Viji Vishwanath Dec 2019
What a beautiful thing it is !
A Canvas that speaks a lot
Wow ! an artist’s soul
That try to speak a lot
From the window of canvas
To the doors of sky
Till the depth of ocean
In the romancing moonlight
And spreading its vastness
As the fragrance
Of night blooms
Until the sunrise
Again from morning dews
To chirping birds
Snowy mountains
To windy breeze
A moving cloud
And even from rain to rainbow
All is possible
With the tip of a brush
Is a marvellous thing
That depicts an artist’s heart

An art is a creation
Of an artist
Which is made
In different colours
With different paints
And in different shades
But all in one canvas
Makes an effective painting
Which can never die
As an artist’s soul
That is lightning forever
As a magical lantern

Some paintings speaks a lot
Like stories to us
When it starts speaking
The whole image depicts
It’s originality
As an original photo
Of some place
And that really can lost us
Somewhere as in the canvas

Even eyes of a portrait
Speaks a lot
When we stare in that eyes
It seems as the person is gazing
As a living person is standing in front of us
Which feels like a real photo
And it really makes
An unbelievable painting
Which is like giving life
To the non living thing
Within the canvas
By an artist
Or like a flower bloomed
In the hands of an artist

Canvas that speaks a lot
Really shows true heart
Of an artist’s creation
A beautiful creation
By ones own hands
Mesmerise all of us
With no time
Like an original picture
Taken with a camera
Of high resolution
Is something to adore
With the hearts of love

Canvas that speaks a lot
Is a graceful creation
That makes us wonder
Which is a miracle
In hands of an artist
That remains its effect
For life time
And that make
An artist
Different from others

Canvas that speaks a lot
Is a creation of art
When an artist starts
To move his hand on canvas
It starts to speak a lot
From the sincerity of love
To the beauty of a nature
Sparkling eyes of a human
And the depth of a sea
All that beautiful creation
Of Godly things
Is once more painted
With the help of an artist’s brush
Is something that speaks
For a lifetime
With thousands of words
In one image
Is an exemplary
Creation of humane
In a canvas

Canvas that speaks a lot
With voice of heart
Beats in every hearts
And in all eras

An artist is like a lantern
That lightens other lights
And a canvas is a mirror
Of an artist’s soul
That reflects the lights  
For lifetime
Which was once lit
By an artist
With a great deal
Who was owned
By an eloquent soul.
Dedicated to my loving father who was an artist is no more with us. I personally  lived and experienced the life of a canvas with hands of my father is something to adore more than in words. Memories and the paintings on canvas can never die as an artist’s soul.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
for Jennie in gratitude*

For days afterwards he was preoccupied by what he’d collected into himself from the gallery viewing. He could say it was just painting, but there was a variety of media present in the many surrounding images and artefacts. Certainly there were all kinds of objects: found and gathered, captured and brought into a frame, some filling transparent boxes on a window ledge or simply hung frameless on the wall; sand, fixed foam, paper sea-water stained, a beaten sheet of aluminium; a significant stone standing on a mantelpiece, strange warped pieces of metal with no clue to what they were or had been, a sketchbook with brooding pencilled drawings made fast and thick, filling the page, colour like an echo, and yes, paintings.
 
Three paintings had surprised him; they did not seem to fit until (and this was sometime later) their form and content, their working, had very gradually begun to make a sort of sense.  Possible interpretations – though tenuous – surreptitiously intervened. There were words scrawled across each canvas summoning the viewer into emotional space, a space where suggestions of marks and colour floated on a white surface. These scrawled words were like writing in seaside sand with a finger: the following bird and hiraeth. He couldn’t remember the third exactly. He had a feeling about it – a date or description. But he had forgotten. And this following bird? One of Coleridge’s birds of the Ancient Mariner perhaps? Hiraeth he knew was a difficult Welsh word similar to saudade. It meant variously longing, sometimes passionate (was longing ever not passionate?), a home-sickness, the physical pain of nostalgia. It was said that a well-loved location in conjunction with a point in time could cause such feelings. This small exhibition seemed full of longing, full of something beyond the place and the time and the variousness of colour and texture, of elements captured, collected and represented. And as the distance in time and memory from his experience of the show in a small provincial gallery increased, so did his own thoughts of and about the nature of longing become more acute.
 
He knew he was fortunate to have had the special experience of being alone with ‘the work’ just prior to the gallery opening. His partner was also showing and he had accompanied her as a friendly presence, someone to talk to when the throng of viewers might deplete. But he knew he was surplus to requirements as she’d also brought along a girlfriend making a short film on this emerging, soon to be successful artist. So he’d wandered into the adjoining spaces and without expectation had come upon this very different show: just the title Four Tides to guide him in and around the small white space in which the art work had been distributed. Even the striking miniature catalogue, solely photographs, no text, did little to betray the hand and eye that had brought together what was being shown. Beyond the artist’s name there were only faint traces – a phone number and an email address, no voluminous self-congratulatory CV, no list of previous exhibitions, awards or academic provenance. A light blue bicycle figured in some of her catalogue photographs and on her contact card. One photo in particular had caught the artist very distant, cycling along the curve of a beach. It was this photo that helped him to identify the location – because for twenty years he had passed across this meeting of land and water on a railway journey. This place she had chosen for the coming and going of four tides he had viewed from a train window. The aspect down the estuary guarded by mountains had been a highpoint of a six-hour journey he had once taken several times a year, occasionally and gratefully with his children for whom crossing the long, low wooden bridge across the estuary remained into their teens an adventure, always something telling.
 
He found himself wishing this work into a studio setting, the artist’s studio. It seemed too stark placed on white walls, above the stripped pine floor and the punctuation of reflective glass of two windows facing onto a wet street. Yes, a studio would be good because the pictures, the paintings, the assemblages might relate to what daily surrounded the artist and thus describe her. He had thought at first he was looking at the work of a young woman, perhaps mid-thirties at most. The self-curation was not wholly assured: it held a temporary nature. It was as if she hadn’t finished with the subject and or done with its experience. It was either on-going and promised more, or represented a stage she would put aside (but with love and affection) on her journey as an artist. She wouldn’t milk it for more than it was. And it was full of longing.
 
There was a heaviness, a weight, an inconclusiveness, an echo of reverence about what had been brought together ‘to show’. Had he thought about these aspects more closely, he would not have been so surprised to discovered the artist was closer to his own age, in her fifties. She in turn had been surprised by his attention, by his carefully written comment in her guest book. She seemed pleased to talk intimately and openly, to tell her story of the work. She didn’t need to do this because it was there in the room to be read. It was apparent; it was not oblique or difficult, but caught the viewer in a questioning loop. Was this estuary location somehow at the core of her longing-centred self?  She had admitted that, working in her home or studio, she would find herself facing westward and into the distance both in place and time?
 
On the following day he made time to write, to look through this artist’s window on a creative engagement with a place he was familiar. The experience of viewing her work had affected him. He was not sure yet whether it was the representation of the place or the artist’s engagement with it. In writing about it he might find out. It seemed so deeply personal. It was perhaps better not to know but to imagine. So he imagined her making the journey, possibly by train, finding a place to stay the night – a cheerful B & B - and cycling early in the morning across the long bridge to her previously chosen spot on the estuary: to catch the first of the tides. He already understood from his own experience how an artist can enter trance-like into an environment, absorb its particularness, respond to the uncertainty of its weather, feel surrounded by its elements and textures, and most of all be governed by the continuous and ever-complex play of light.
 
He knew all about longing for a place. For nearly twenty years a similar longing had grown and all but consumed him: his cottage on a mountain overlooking the sea. It had become a place where he had regularly faced up to his created and invented thoughts, his soon-to-be-music and more recently possible poetry and prose. He had done so in silence and solitude.
 
But now he was experiencing a different longing, a longing born from an intensity of love for a young woman, an intensity that circled him about. Her physical self had become a rich landscape to explore and celebrate in gaze, and stroke and caress. It seemed extraordinary that a single person could hold to herself such a habitat of wonder, a rich geography of desire to know and understand. For so many years his longing was bound to the memory of walking cliff paths and empty beaches, the hypnotic viewing of seascaped horizons and the persistent chaos of the sea and wild weather. But gradually this longing for a coming together of land, sea and sky had migrated to settle on a woman who graced his daily, hourly thoughts; who was able to touch and caress him as rain and wind and sun can act upon the body in ever-changing ways. So when he was apart from her it was with such a longing that he found himself weighed down, filled brimfull.
 
In writing, in attempting to consider longing as a something the creative spirit might address, he felt profoundly grateful to the artist on the light blue bicycle whose her observations and invention had kept open a door he felt was closing on him. She had faced her own longing by bringing it into form, and through form into colour and texture, and then into a very particular play: an arrangement of objects and images for the mind to engage with – or not. He dared to feel an affinity with this artist because, like his own work, it did not seem wholly confident. It contained flaws of a most subtle kind, flaws that lent it a conviction and strength that he warmed to. It had not been massaged into correctness. The images and the textures, the directness of it, flowed through him back and forward just like the tides she had come far to observe on just a single day. He remembered then, when looking closely at the unprotected pieces on the walls, how his hand had moved to just touch its surfaces in exactly the way he would bring his fingers close to the body of the woman he loved so much, adored beyond any poetry, and longed for with all his heart and mind.
Terry Collett Apr 2012
Lisbeth stands watching
The artist as he prepares
To sketch. Her elder sisters
Stand in shadows whispering.
Her younger sister plays
With her doll on the floor.
Their father said to do as
The artist instructed and
Don’t misbehave or be rude.
The artist stares hard his
Dark eyes searching their
Every move and expression
And body gesture. The elder
Girls mutter in shadows
Their hands over their mouths
Their blue eyes like shallow
Pools. Ready? The artist
Asks putting charcoal to
Paper his fingers blackening.
Lisbeth says just as we are?
The artist nods. His grim
Features express do not disturb.
The youngest sister plays
Ignoring the artist her eyes set
On the game at hand. The girls
In shadow turn their profiles
Set to mystery their hands on
Their abdomens like guardians
Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as
She watches the artist’s stiff
Moustache and beard the slow
Movement of his mouth as he
Mouths words and stares hard.
The last artist employed some
Year before younger and less
Brutal in expression and manner
Had drawn them each in private
Rooms and set them down on couch
Or bed and kept their images inside
His head. He was dismissed and the
Drawings destroyed and nothing said.
Lisbeth had thought it just a game
Something done as lover might in
Private corners or lonely spots on
Quiet nights. The artist sketches.
His blackened fingers move and
Made their mark. Their images
Captured. The scene set. One sister
In the shadows yawns the other
Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth
Poses as young girls do. Nothing
To show of interest and nothing
Hid no secret self no other you.
That’s it the artist says we’ll begin
The painting another day maybe
Next week if all is well. The girls
In shadow look away and resume
Their secret games. Lisbeth studies
The artist’s blackened fingers as
He rolls the charcoal sketch and
Puts away. He gazes at her standing
By herself a glimpse of smile and
Glimmer in her eyes like small fires.
He closes the tired lids of eyes
And smoulders down his old desires.
Miguel Diaz Jun 2016
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.

The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.

I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.

"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.

Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.

The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.

The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.

Peace within oneself is peace with others.

The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond

He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting

The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land

The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life

Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money

His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait

So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial

He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done

The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed

Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."

The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed

With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"

He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay

For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw

Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction

He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond

He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined

The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him

The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache

A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted

His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"

Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife

The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made

The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting

Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond

He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Frank Corbett Dec 2012
Mythical.
The artist is an old one,
Un-earthly and infinite,
Vast as heaven and the void,
The limitations of good and evil,
I am immune, yet soul crushingly bound to its power,
I am a toothpick,
Yet I am useful for now,
As I plan my escape,
Writing an endless map in memo pads and text files,
I tell myself it will someday be worth the while.
The artist is like you, reader,
The artist is ugly, disgustingly so.
The artist is beautiful, and puts me to shame.
The artist could burn the world with a thought,
But couldn’t break its teeth with a diamond,
No matter how hard it tried.
The artist is fictional,
Contextual,
Known only to I,
Especially as the artist.
I bet its laughing at me this second,
My feeble attempts to escape a napkin,
A tool to further other means.
I don’t mind it,
In fact, it’s rewarding in a way,
The artist lacks definition,
But moves with a sway,
It is hard to defend.
[(Impossible to define)]
My role is that of a journal of skin,
A memory bank to which it is akin,
But my limit is reached,
Something has come to a head,
I can feel the artist defined…
It has taken form,
And now,
Unfortunately,
Dead.
Sunburst
I wanted to ask it what it was thinking,
But I think I know now;
Bad things.
As a writer,
Pictures inspire the emotion:
The journal acting as the canvas,
And the pen being the brush,

And as a writer to an artist,
Black and white had never shown more beautifully.

Though as a writer dating an artist,
To view meaning within the basic lines of the world
Compares not to the placing of meaning atop the ones given.

For as a writer dating an artist,
A blank page envelopes more than unfinished work,
As any unfinished work soon becomes accepted beauty.

And as a writer dating an artist,
Seeing emotion in color no longer feels foreign,
Evolving old metaphors into nothing shy of the neanderthals.

Thus as a writer dating an artist,
I've begun to learn the way of the trade,
In fear for when my words run dry.

As an artist,
Words inspire the feelings,
The canvas acting as the journal,
And the brush being the pen.

And as an artist to a writer,
Silence had never been etched more enticing.

As the writer dating an artist-
I have become the artist in love with a writer.
March 14th, 2013
mygreatestescape Nov 2016
I
first saw
the Artist
stooped over
a canvas,
gently
invading
its properties
with paint stained
hands,

I first
saw the Artist
whispering
encouragements
as
the masterpiece
revealed itself,

I first
saw the Artist
creating revolutions
with each stroke
as
if all of
our evolution
could be
described
in one dash
of colour,

I
first
saw the Artist
in
our
yawning
existence
as
our hopes
hung from
nooses,

I first saw
the Artist
as
his hair
caught
the meager
rays of sunshine
reflecting
Cezzane
in his mastery,

I first
saw the Artist
in the
way
his eyes
turned
golden
and
the strangest
ways
he smiled at
me,

I

got to know
the artist
when
he turned
blue
from
hanging
onto
ropes for
too long,

I saw
the Artist
last
when
his
last
masterpiece
was
his
own
epitaph,


I've
never seen the
Artist again,

I wonder
where
he's
gone.
I miss people a lot these days.
Lost Girl Aug 2016
She was art
Yet no one told her so
She covered her body in other people's art
She didn't think anyone would see past the ink
She liked it better that way
She was art

He was an artist
Yet no one told him so
He covered others' bodies with his art
He didn't think anyone would see past the needle
He liked it better that way
He was an artist

One day, the art met the artist
He called her his masterpiece
He covered her in ink
But he would never touch his face
Artists know when not to touch art that is beyond their own talents

She never believed she was art
Only a blank canvas
But as she lay fully exposed to him, she finally knew all his words were true

He never believed he was an artist
Only a man with a needle and ink
But as he watched her lay exposed and vulnerable for him, he finally knew all her words were true

She never believed that she was a piece of art
That was okay
She was just waiting for someone to make her believe she was a masterpiece
His masterpiece

He never believed that he was an artist
That was okay
He was just waiting for his perfect muse
His perfect canvas

And in his bed, entwined together
The art fell in love with the artist
The artist fell in love with the art

His soft touch was a paint brush
Each stroke painting her with more love
Her openness was a canvas to him
Each time, a new and exciting moment for him

She wore his art as a badge of honor
He wore her on his arm as a mark of freedom

The art and the artist had become one
And no one could separate them

The art and the artist
Gigi Tiji Jan 2015
You are the artist.
The artist is love.
The artist is a creator and the creator is an artist.
The art is the artist and the artist is the art.
The artist is the seed, the garden, and the gardener.
The gardener, the garden, and the seed are the artist.
The artist plants seeds of themselves,
seeds of energy, thought, and emotion,
in the garden of their life.
The soil must be hydrated and nutritious
in order for the seeds to reach their fullest glory.
Once the seeds crack and
all of their insides come out,
it will continue to grow.
The artist gives them time, space, and love.
The artist will love them
as they love themselves, and
if and when the plants have grown,
they will blossom out of their garden and into others.
The seeds are shown and they are there to be sown and
so as you sow so shall you reap.
An Artist is Different to All

An Artist Creates

An Artist Puts Our Thoughts

Thoughts and Feelings that we were sure

Couldn’t be put into shape

Couldn’t be expressed , or understood

An Artist should bring those to life

And an artist has to get those thoughts from somewhere

an artist does not pull up and out

excrustiatingly difficult and complex emotions

Out Of Nowhere

because an artist

Not All

But an artist pulls those feelings

o ut of th ei r so ul

an artist

may stay s ick i n  th e he a d

to keep that art coming

an artist

t ak es them s e l v e s apa r t

and throws themselves onto paper

canvas, a staff, a chord ,

and throws themselves up

as words

To an Artist, Blood may very well be Ink.
Leonoah Apr 2020
It's that usual time of the year again – where everyone’s starting to feel that depression crippling in. The year has just started yet everybody is too concerned with the goals they had in mind since last month, as if they’re running out of time when it clearly just begun.

    In a dull-colored house located in a small town that’s not too known nor too popular – is a man in his 30s, an artist, sitting in the very corner of his room. Beside him was the last bottle of sleeping pills that he have. Every night, you can see him through the small window of his dimmed-light house downing those pills before the twenty-second of the clock hits. Some of his neighbors who sometimes see him buy those pills thought that it was weird for a man in his 30s to regularly drink sleeping pills every night, yet never sleeps.

    Little did they know, the man was clinically depressed, and he was not getting any better but still tries to maintain his medication that was prescribed to him during a free and quick mental check-up from several months ago. The pills were not of help anymore after a month but still he drinks as the idea of doing something for his mind, even if ineffective, comforts his soul. Well, it’s not like an unknown artist would be able to afford medicines that are being sold by the rich capitalists, he thought. The man’s arts were not something that everyone who sees understands. From the lines and strokes down to the colors and spaces he use, their eyebrows strike up as they can’t grasp the concept he’s going for.

    The sun shone and suddenly, the man in his 30s is no longer sitting in the very corner of his small room. He was now sitting in front of an old tree, looking at a lady who seemed to be in her late 20s. The lady was in her all-white uniform smiling gently as she hands the generic medicines to the seniors of that small town. Meanwhile, the man in his 30s was uttering words that only the dead leaves can hear.

    “She looks good in yellow,” he whispered, and the wind blew. The man in his 30s felt cold but did not mind as it’s not like he had any other choice but to endure. Suddenly, the lady in an all-white uniform turned her head and saw the man in his 30s.

    Ever so slowly in his eyes, the lady walks towards the man’s direction. At her soft and gentle hands was a blanket she kept for times like this.

    “It’s cold, have this. Are you going to show me your works again?” she asks gently while she wraps him in that blanket. ‘This feels warm,’ he thought. And that was a new thing for him.

    “Would you look?” in a stammering small voice he asked. The lady in her late 20s nodded and that was when everything has hit him. This gentle yellow lady always feels new to him, and he loves the feeling of this new. The yellow lady has always been gentle and soft and he loves it – it feels new and he loves it. She smiles brightly to him and the feeling of always wanting to see it surprises him every time because ever since he was born, this is the first time that he does not feel anxious or mocked. He finally feels loved, and there was hope; and it feels new.

    The yellow lady learned everything about the artist in his 30s – from his childhood that feels blurry yet clear (to him), how he came to that small town, how he started painting, why he started painting, the meaning of his works, his frantic days, his medications, and many more that the artist in his 30s never thought he would ever share to anybody. The yellow lady even started to learn that she has feelings for the artist in his 30s, and she was very willing to entertain and develop more together with the artist.

    Years gone by and they now live in an averaged-size house – average because it just fits them perfectly and they thought that was more than enough. The couple earns money together and they always feel that their money is perfectly enough for the family they are dreaming of. The husband gets paid by painting buildings located in the city, and every after he finishes his work, he rushes home to see his yellow lady. Yes, the artist who is now in his early 40s still refers to his partner as the yellow lady. No matter what day, occasion, or whoever they are with, she was still his yellow lady and that was so much more than he could ask for.

    Sometimes when the artist watches his wife work in her all-white uniform, he would talk to the children which he enjoys. He thought that children are much better than adults as their curiosity was never with malice. “Children might say mean things, but they will eventually grow up and be apologetic for their innocent mistakes. But grown-ups are never mistaken innocently nor are they sorry about it,” he once said to his wife.

    That day in January came and while he was waiting for his wife, a child came up to him and asked him where he could ask for a cough medicine. He touched the child’s shoulder, and pointed his finger to the yellow lady.

    “Can you see that lady in yellow? Ask her and she will answer you softly.”

    The child was confused; everyone’s either in white or ***** clothes, who is this man talking about?

    The artist in his 40s understood the child’s silent confusion and then said, “My apologies for your puzzlement. Just look for the only lady who smiles softly and lovely, she’ll help you.”

    The child ran towards the group of people who are either in white or ***** clothes, and looked for the only lady who smiles softly and lovely. He kept turning his head in order to look and when he found the lady who was smiling so gently to other children around, he ran to her direction and asked her if she was the lady in yellow.

    The yellow lady nodded her head and then kindly asked the child about what he needs. The child’s feet moved back and forth while patiently waiting for the medicine. He asked the lady why she is being referred to as the yellow lady, to which the latter kindly replied: I can tell you but you won’t be able to understand yet, love.

    That day ended and just like how every day usually happens, the couple walked home together while talking about their day and made plans about their dinner. After dinner, they proceeded to their bed and continued talking until the artist in his 40s fell into sleep while the yellow lady gently caresses his hair.

    Each day for them was always new yet familiar – and that never changed. Even when they had a child, when they had their worst fight and made up a week after, when one of them started losing hair, or even when they found out that the man who was once in his 30s is now being chased by cancer – the feeling of familiarity but different was never gone.

    When the man finally decided to take his rest, his wife started to wear yellow – everyday. And when she was asked by her son why, she answered with her utmost sincerity that she was afraid she might forget who she is and how deeply valued she is just because the one who reminds her every single day has physically left.

    Years after, and the son was now a working adult. He sighs as he sits in front of his late parents’ tombstones. He placed his military bag beside him and looked at the smiling photos of his mother and father. He was once again reminded of how much he missed them and how he wishes they were still there beside him or in their house waiting for his return after every war he fights. And in a small voice he said to his father, that he has now found his lady in blue, and how he wishes they were watching over them for he’s always going to need their guidance.

LEONOAH
i really really enjoyed writing this :)

unedited ever since i finished writing
Quinton Oct 2014
never date an artist:
for they’ll find the beauty in the fight -
they’ll grow to remove themselves from all the light,
knowing nothing lasts forever,
it’s all a stroke of fate -
or a pen’s dance on a paper’s grate.

never date an artist:
for the moment’s together will be exaggerated into a shakespearean play -
love’s trance will be in every date,
never knowing if the words spilled are the beauties of your’s or estranged gains of a moment’s escape,
for everything is painted by the beautiful eyes of an experienced guide -
is it real or a work of art they’re just trying to explain.

never date an artist:
they’ll miscommunicate everything they care to say -
not knowing how to communicate beyond the artistic escape,
an artist will rejoice in the gain of a moment’s grace,
finding every reason to hide from the honest’s truth -
for an artist is nothing but a fairytale’s goof.

painted, writen and expressed to be everything they wish people would see,
washed up and beaten by reality’s plea -
never date an artist, for their life is nothing but a conglomerated mess -
of how to escape the stress of the everyday and live in hopeless harmony,
they’re nothing but an anomaly:
never date an artist.

trust me.
El Torpedo appeared out of thin air, moving at what could only be called -by any reasonable man, considerable velocity. She crashed into her soft down bed with a force that would've concerned even the most detached of onlookers, had there been any. 'Had there been any?' she wondered, as the recoil from the impact sent her flying into the air. The young girls arms and legs flailed in all directions; her body spinning wildly through the empty space of mid-flight, until finally -THUD!

“******* it, Ghost!” she groaned, holding the back of her head with her gloved hand.
“How can that still be funny!”
There was no reply, only a faint warm breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass.
“This is no time for jokes, Ghost! I was this close to offing those *******. What the **** were you thinking letting them get away?”

For a few moments she continued on mumbling various obscenities and abuse at The Ghost, which we won't bother to detail here. El Torpedo removed herself from the floor and took a few seconds to dust off her omniverse attire.
Ghost Scarecrow replied, “I didn't let them get away.”
“Well, then where the **** are they? I don't see them anywhere!” El Torpedo spat back.
“Of course you don't. They're not within our current field of vision.”
“Very funny, you are such a ******* riot. Did they get away or not?”
“No. They did not get away.”
“Well, where are they, then?”
“Finally, you ask the right question!”
“I already asked you that!”
“Whatever. Let's go.”

At that moment, El Torpedo and the Ghost Scarecrow evaporated into the universe, their molecules became space, all of it...the entire thing all at once, allowing the duo the very useful ability to appear anywhere in the omniverse at anytime without warning. I know, it's hard to comprehend. But, as far as I can tell, and from what I've been told by those who would know, that's what happened. It was a rather difficult period for criminals like me. But that's a story for another time, back to the matter at hand.

Once their miracle of physical travel was complete, the duo found themselves floating approximately 40 feet above the Lacksdale River looking down on Tom's Bridge. Two small objects could be made out in the distance, appearing to hover just beneath.

“That's them?”
“Yep.”
“What did you do, Ghost?”
“I was just practicing my justicing...”
“That's not justice, Ghost. That's ******.”
“No Torpedo, that is art.” His playful demeanor suddenly became somber and serious. “Let's have a closer look.”

The two floated closer. As they came within range, El Torpedo felt the cold, dark energy flowing straight through her soul; Ghost had had one of his moments again. The gruesome scene came into full view: Two men hung upside down from the bridge; the chains that Ghost Scarecrow had used to secure their ankles had already begun their slow and deliberate journey through the men's flesh.





Beneath the chains were crudely fashioned trash bags secured by duct tape around the victim's ankles. Ghost wasn't a detail oriented entity, he just sort of did things in a haphazard way and called it art. Even the casual observer could tell that the job was done in haste. The plastic covered the corpses from ankle to neck. The bags were bloated, filled with the blood of the doomed souls. A few tiny streams of the red liquid made it through the duct tape and ran down the faces of the men.

El Torpedo turned away for a moment and fixed her gaze on the Scarecrow, the smile on his face was quite sinister and chilled her to the bone. She wondered what he thought was so artistic about this brutality. Then she saw their faces. They were beautiful. It must have taken him hours to carve it all.

“How did you do that? It's..beautiful.”
“I didn't do that.”
“You didn't?”
“No. I'm currently compiling a list of possible suspects.”
“Ghost, you told me that you did it.”
“I did.”
“Well, either you did or you didn't. Which is it?”
“I killed them and hung them there. I didn't do the carving. You know I can't draw...at least not like that, and certainly not in this dimension.”
“Then who did?”
“I'm not sure.” The Ghost stuttered, beginning to feel a bit sick. “This looks like the work of...”
Together they finished the sentence, “The Artist!”

For a moment they stared at each other in stunned silence, both absorbing the gravity of the situation. El Torpedo broke the silence, “It can't be, we...I..., I killed The Artist myself. I stuck the barrel to her sweaty forehead; I saw the fear in her eyes when I cocked the hammer. I saw the explosion of blood and brain matter splash against the ceiling and walls after I squeezed the trigger. I wiped her blood from MY face. It's impossible!”
The Scarecrow replied, “It could be a copy cat. The Artist is dead, Torpedo. I was there; I saw what you did to her. No one could survive that -not even her.”

“You two don't know what you saw,” boomed the unmistakable voice of the one and only. “But, I do!” She continued, “You saw what I wanted you to see. Same as now.” She drew a heavy breath, her ample ***** grew fuller. She created the illusion of oxygen intake; she was a creator, and continued her verbal assault on the Scarecrow. “And you! Strawman, or whatever you call yourself these days. To even suggest a copycat after looking at my masterpiece...I'll **** you in eight dimensions a day for the next week! Ten, if I can manage it.” El Torpedo saw the fire of  The Artist's eye flickering in the cool blue darkness. “I think I'll start with the you in this dimension.”

At that very moment, The Ghost fired his (clever weapon name) straight through the heart of what we all, and any person worthy of being reasoned with would've thought was, The Artist. No such luck. The solid image became mist, evaporating before their eyes. I could still see her, safely tucked away. I see lots of things though; hard to keep it all straight, you know?

The Artist continued, “..to think that would work. Good Christ, Strawman! You're dumber than your name implies!”

She reappeared, snuggled closely to the back of  The Ghost Scarecrow. Her knife at his throat, her lips at his ear, she whispered, “My Turn.” She proceeded to pull the blade across Ghost's neck. Before Torpedo could even begin to think about reacting, The Ghost's blood was spraying all over the place. I actually felt bad for her at that moment. It was kind of sad, actually. Blah, rambling again. Back to it!  


“What the **** was that?” El Torpedo uttered, apparently still in shock.
“That, My Dear, is what you can expect when you **** with The Artist!” The sound of her words reminded El Torpedo of the sound of an electric can opener near the end of it's days. “I am the only force in the omniverse that you need concern yourself with, that is all you need to know. Now, Good Night!”

Blinded, but very much alive and very much paralyzed, El Torpedo could feel her limp body sinking into the dark, cold waters of the Lacksdale River. She held her breath for as long as she could, until finally, she gave. The water filled her lungs, but she did not die. A chain appeared around her ankle, it descended deep into the abyss where, presumably, it was attached to something that would keep the girl secure. I'm not sure, I couldn't see that far.

“I've secured you between dimensions, Dear. No one will find you here. Enjoy your stay.” and with that The Artist was gone. But, she'd made one, possibly fatal, mistake. She'd left a witness, ME!
Dear Diary,

It seens that I appear to be stuck in my own mind. Trapped perhaps, in this horrible thought process of mine.
Been locked up in a cage of hatred towards myself. What was it that I had done for a concequence like this one?
Seeking answers never given. Searching for clues never placed.
But like a maze, found a reason to keep walking till freedom was found at last.
But no, not in this case. Yes I did find the exit to this maze and I had a reason to do so. However freedom was not a reward.
It was much more than that.
It was an answer to all that had been questioned. An answer to a prayer laid to rest. A message in a bottle reached me, as it was read a smile drawn upon my face.
No smile had meant more than the one drawn that instant.
Drawn, in fact, by an artist himself.
Never had I called myself to bear such beautiful smile but he, had drawn it with the hands of an artist a genious.
An artist whose canvas was a human body, the skin of those who craved that sting in return for a memory. A work of art.
This artist managed to draw the most incredible smile upon my face that I had ever laid eyes on. Impressive I must admit.
But how was said artist capable of this?
With words painted in the back of my mind as he spoke, bursts of joy flew.
An artist who once loved this selfish being and who had permanently drawn her name on his own personal canvas with a beating heart.
An artist she calls superman.

-Kathia Mariana Landeros
For you
The Artist
is one who is not satisfied by the lies of society
nor have they ever been,
nor will they ever be.

The Artist
is one who reflects back the so carelessly discarded toxins of society
so has it always been,
so shall it always be.

The Artist
is not satisfied with what has been created, no matter the beauty
so must it be
for more beauty to be made.

The Artist
is not one for rules and regulations
nor is he one for Authority
unless that authority is the Creative.

The Artist
is the harbinger of God
not in that he is of a particular religion,
but in that he reflects the Divinity of reality
even if in his own twisted, satirical way.

The Artist
is one who is compelled to imagine;
who is compelled to challenge the norms
as well as the taboos
of their time

The Artist
is a Prophet
of the Godself.
Lunar May 2014
beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display
Cíara McNamara Oct 2015
lonely is an artist
when he crafts his work,
lonely is an artist
when they need a muse,
lonely is an artist
when she basks in misery,
lonely is an artist
when lost in ones tragedy,
lonely is an artist
among their greatest work,
lonely is an artist
in their happiness,
lonely is an artist
when they craft their best.
I am an artist
i paint brilliant pictures for you to see.
i sketch out curves and shade
the world as i see it.
i do this to please and entertain.
you. me. anyone who is willing to
take a step into my mind

I am a life drawing artist.
Through techniques of rendering and
cross hatching, i authenticate the
skin of beauty mind and soul.
my **** canvas in front of me sits perfectly
still, yet is always moving.
it blinks and slowly breathes with each passing minute.

I am a 3D sculpter.
No 2D for me.
i want what is there for me to touch.
i want to grab it. turn it. inspect
every angle and then proceed with
my decision.

I am an abstract artist.
i see things differently.
I dont want to follow the norm.
no conformity for the strong and independent.
i will choose my color, my stroke, my paper, my pen.
i will choose my own pathway.

I am an artist.
i do not use a brush.
i dont like pastel, or paint, or charcoal.
my medium is my voice.
i use my words to describe the bitter sting
of love, life, and wonder.

I can paint any picture in your mind.
I can shade any thought into your head.
I can sketch any emotion so vividly into your heart,
that it will melt into the sweetest pool
of crimson.

I am an artist,
through my words, description, and mind.
i need no colors or paint
only my pen and paper.
i need no history of Van Gogh
only my imagination and creativity.
I need only what makes sense to me.

Through my writing,
I am an artist.
Thank you for the read. Comments and criticism are always welcome.
DEW Jul 2016
Why can't I fly? Because, I am caged in the bowels of bitter, deceit.
Why can't I dance? Because, my body is bound to the gravity of unacceptable, honor.
Why, can't I sing? Because, my lungs are choked by this haute reservoir of insanity.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the ladder of awe, itself, and walks the silver lining of death.

Why can't I write? Because, my hands are bound in the filth of my past,
meddling with broken things.
Why can't I speak? Because, the honor I am bound to, is to live, life, behind closed windows.
Why can't I see? Because, the blindfolds that sheath my eyes from sin, are more sin than any satan incarnate.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the rungs of the narrow road, and walks over the pit of doom, to save itself.
There is no explanation for this act.

So, why can't I shout? Because, I am voiceless to the concerns of the audience.
Why can't I beg? Because, the world has no room for weakness, fear and more loss.
Why can't I scream? Because...
Because...

Because the Trapeze artist dropped off the high-strung ledge of wonders...
And plummeted into a darkness, that has robbed my audience, of all conscionable thought.

Because... the Trapeze artist, is dead.
This is a poem that I wrote back in 2010 (on July 4th), which is the year I consider to be the dawn of my writing. It was the year that poems came to me effortlessly, continually, like bottled messages from yonder lands. I sat on the shore crafting a boat to make it to yonder, where I thought yonder held the love I so craved and spoke elegantly of. Now I may have been to yonder, and wish to never return...

Enjoy!

DEW
Faera May 2017
If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)

If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces

I would never love an artist

because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin

No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)

no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins

And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters

I would never love an artist

because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt

For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)

If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer

But I am.
And I understand.

And I would never love an artist

For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed

And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer
milkweedangel Dec 2017
There’s an artist in the back of the ambulance
she painted her canvas red
with brushes of silver
and buckets of blood
she painted until she was dead

There’s an artist in the back of the ambulance
the canvas she used was her skin
open scars of silver
and rivers of blood
she painted out all of her sin

There’s an artist in the back of the ambulance
the picture she painted was pain
with tears of silver
and tears of blood
she painted a scene of red rain

There’s an artist in the back of the ambulance
she painted the sound of her scream
lying words of silver
and masks of blood
she painted herself into a dream

There’s an artist in the back of the ambulance
her masterpiece broke her mom’s heart
with IV’s of silver
and flatline of blood
she painted her young soul apart

There’s an artist in the back of the hearse
she painted her mom’s crying sound
with blades of silver
and her own blood
she painted herself into the ground
5/3/16
Semerian Perez Aug 2012
Beautiful artist
Why do you dance
To entertain us
With a world shrouded
In mystery

Beautiful artist
Men awe at your beauty
As you dance across the stage
Movement flowing
Like water

Clad in layers of silk
Beautiful artist
You capture the facination
Of those who visit

Beautiful artist
Paint your face
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

Wife to a secretive world
Both fragile as it is beautiful
So wear the name proudly
Beautiful artist
From now on you will be called
Geisha.
Nolan Davis Oct 2011
An artist,

Bleeding his heart into the canvas

Carefully planning his masterpiece

Dutifully paying attention to every detail.



Emotionally drained,

Forced to finish his work

Grueling over an uninviting crowd

Helpless to the impending backlash



Inspired, the artist continues

Just to prove his critics wrong

Knowing that his work will be amazing

Loving himself even more



Meticulously painting his beautiful image

Never letting stamina get to him

Opening his mind to a grand illusion

Presented to him by an transcendent figure



Questioning if what he saw was true

Reveling in the moment of it all

Slowly, the artist comes to a finish

Trapping the moment inside of his easel



Unveiling to the crowd was his final test

Vociferously, he explained his masterpiece

When all of a sudden, the artist begins to run

Xenophobia had stricken him



You now know why most artists are obscure.

Zealous fans always ruin everything.
Samir Jun 2012
****** spit on top of a napkin
face up in the garbage
no better than-

peculiar how life turns out...
my tea still at the rim of the glass
lost all of its steam
I no longer-

what does it look like inside the mind of a broken one?
channel skipping?
static? beyond-
comprehension
what does this mean?
I don't understand...

****** spit on a napkin
atop the garbage
grabbing your attention
against your will
and leaving an...

unsettling feeling with you

like the question of what makes a true artist?
life.

life makes a true artist
it is not a choice
but what makes a true artist
what is art but a bunch of nonsense
but even nonsense has meaning
what is art but the broken expressions of the broken
artist... ?

what is a poet but a bent neck?

an artist is an ordinary person
inflicted in the mind perhaps
but this has more adverse effects on the heart
in all reality

but again... an artist is an ordinary person
who's been beaten for so long
who's sacrificed everything
unappreciated

who's been singing the same song unheard
who's ran out of communication
a new medium is born
heralding new information to those who don't need it
to those who are better off
more healthy in mind

an artist is a person who's had enough
the one who left ****** spit in the napkin

enough explaining.
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.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i.

for the past few weeks i've been doing an experiment,
thankfully philosophy allows such things,
of course, they're deviations from what i'm used to
in chemistry, they're less, what's the word?
spectacular - but they are nonetheless experiments,
and that's the beauty of being grounded in some sort
of science (trinity of biology, chemistry and physics
and that's the limit, beyond this there are only
pseudo-sciences)... medicine? that's the tsarina of
learning: like any tsarina: gets down and *****,
and yes: mathematics is the genteel queen.
philosophy on the other hand seems like a vagabond
in learning, never really pieced together,
never really sentenced to a single direction:
and for that matter, thought can become less narration
that stretches into the sort of philosophy that Sartre
embodied with his novel, and more into thought becoming
experimental...
you might be wondering what the experiment consisted
of... well, over the weeks i've been sadistic unto myself,
it's to do with trying to figure out the modern curse
that's the 3D's: debt, depression, dementia.
                i can't fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey
cigarettes, sleeping pills and music playing in the background:
which would make me a terrible partner, anyway.
   beyond that though, for weeks i repeated a pattern,
i fell asleep to the *hellraiser ii: hellbound
soundtrack
by christopher young...
       day-in-day out: as if to pressurise the idea that
the faculty of dreaming could be censored in the same way
that thinking is censored in liberal speech
eroding people's vocabulary, **** included.
     what i mean by that: every day i woke up with 15 minutes
of despair, then the zenith came after i lay in bed
for 4 hours and felt too many leeches ******* at me...
   those 15 minutes of despair were always there,
but then i usually got up and went about my daily business...
i admit that whiskey could be to blame,
anyone could argue the alcohol-is-bad argument,
but arguing as R. D. Laing might have that it's
also a sedative if you don't include social adhesion to loosen
the tension of going out and dancing:
then i don't see the point of saying it's all bad.
         sleeping pills (i found) are not 100% active without
what the prescription states that you should do:
i exceed limits, but then i write during the night -
            create a balance and i'm sure any insomnia
might be made minimal... anyway:
so i've been doing this roundabout experiment,
listening to the above album while falling asleep,
but then yesterday i decided to fall asleep listening to
godspeed you! black emperor's album F♯ A♯ ∞,
and guess what the experiment proved:
  i felt little or no anguish for 15 minutes,
obviously the usual groggy of a pseudo-hangover,
  but that doesn't mean staying in bed for 4 hours
because you feel **** about life 'n' all...
                   as already stated there's what we call
a cartesian dichotomy, that somehow altered mental
states cannot be translated into a physicality -
depression in this sort of language becomes lethargy -
people never seemed to connect the dots that
state the monism of everything having a pairing either
side of Humpty-Dumpty sitting on the ergo fence
asking about a flying omelette... ergo is a variation
of what precipitates... depression = lethargy...
the purest kind of what i know (i have enough psychiatric
literature to redeem myself from what would
be deemed quack-medicine with their quack doctors) -
some say that taking the vitamin B12 supplement
could help you: or that weak digestion is to blame, too.
i would be quack doctor if i was in a position of power,
and since i am not really earning anything from my
"poems", what sort of power can i abuse? trust -
but then again these are thought experiments,
           i first experiment on myself, then note down
the observations i have accounted for.
               so what will my unconscious eat today while
i switch off my consciousness? i was thinking of
the cure's disintegration album,
         perhaps that's why i did weeks of falling asleep
to a horror movie soundtrack, to later move into
neo-prog "rock" and then into 80s goth melancholia...
    i'd say that pop ****** melancholics off...
and such a nicer word for depression...
                   it's not even close to compression and has
nothing to do with aviation or the Netherlands...
     melan, melan: ah! melanism - a certain darkness,
    choly -         condition of darkness...
       and that star of Bethlehem appeared at night...
man of sorrows, well that's just blatant;
           but for all the romanticisation about darkness
and the mysterious moon and all the insomnia,
i still prefer the anti-cartesian explanation of actually
creating the proper answer to what has become
a dichotomy between the physical sciences and
the pseudo sciences, given that ergo is a precipitation
then for the two opposite to become inseparable
depression must be equal to lethargy: which is a variation
of the grander genus (family): metabolism.
               is this the point where i re-quote that famous:
doctor! heal yourself!
                                      well, if there's anything to go by
i have in my mind, given my life a prolonging in a way,
what was it... amitriptyline?
                                         the new ******* for
the respectably prone to citizenship's serenity of leaving
other people to their own demises -
  i mean, look at all the teetotalers: hyperactive bunnies
with too much energy that translated into things like
the infamous pyramids and the doubly infamous chimneys.

ii. the danish girl

i would have never thought that the transgender movement
had such a puritanism about it,
such platonism - nearing martyrdom;
who could have thought?! i only managed to see the film
today... i'm a sentimental ******* and i was choking
on not crying at the end of the film
here was a true representation of an artist,
         there's he (einar wegenar): a successful local
artist, within the confines of Copenhagen,
modestly famous: primarily because of having
perfected a technique and sourced it in a childhood
memory that keeps haunting him,
    thus he keeps repeating it, although with slight
alternation to refresh it, but no photograph to work
from, hence my previous statement:
  memory is the best cinema or arts' gallery (this
is not a universal statement, memory doesn't always
heal, or fascinate or have the ability to revitalises itself
or become the most potent "hallucinogenic" experience);
and then she's there (gerda wegener), also
painting, but more in line with paying the rent
rather than appeal, rich people needing portraits to
hang on the walls of the future of their lineage
        in years to come so someone might boast:
that was my ancestor, who founded the first bank
of Copenhagen sort of stories -
and all she wants to do is be an artist like Einar;
and she keeps coming back from galleries with her
works and they never give the critics any appeal
at being original - they have a suggestive generic
quality to them: precisely because they've been painted
for money. art is cruel in that way,
  when critics reduce producing art like they might reduce
being a cashier in a supermarket on the basis of:
job done... then comes the offense from the artist.
the beauty of this film is the platonism that soon explodes,
the near innocence... i really don't know how
the transgender movement borrowed from this:
all those Baphomet ******* with too many parts,
silicon chests and ***** and what not?
       this is one of the finest forms of defamation -
these days the transgender movement is so sexually
potent it doesn't really deserve what can only appear
as a self-imposed crucifixion...
              this story predates the unearthing of the nag
hammadi scripts, it's intuitively bound to what was
unearthed in 1945...
      einar sees the desperation of gerda, he knows
that he'll simply remain a local artist,
    bound to a square mile of earth, local, provincial
even... what he decides on is best expressed
by Marilyn Manson's lyrics: now i'm not an artist
i'm a ******* work of art
.
        how can not this resonate further into the film
if not by this motto:
it is a consecration of a memory, to invert it and
un-seize the moment long ago experienced and now
fuelling art, or the repetition of a safe technique established.
one man's frustration and a woman in a cage:
the potential seen - then a sudden bursting of madness,
the evident anti-cross -
                                  to say he had reached his limits
and she was kept frustrated and under-appreciated is
blatant enough, this self-sacrifice for a woman to
find her subject, was all too evident when she utters
the words that: the student overcomes the teacher,
and that's the whole story,
                       he has to walk into the canvas,
     in whatever way imaginable, and what a better way
than on a whim to escape the dreariness of parties
   by dressing up as a woman, after gerda's model
is late so she can continue a painting and einar
has to step in and wear a few female garments...
       to later realise the Dionysian consequence:
                                  only to the utmost excess, from here.
this could hardly be a propaganda movie for
the transgender movement... the "propaganda"
aspect ends when you hear children imitating this
artistic "prank" in today's society...
      it wasn't a prank in the slightest: but a profound
expression of love between two artists...
          outside of art the whole transgender movement
is still only ***** and silicon **** of Thailand's lady-boys:
that's not reality?        
although i actually did choke with nearing to cry
in the closing scene...
    unlike the Christ story... there was no resurrection.
so hans and gerda travel to the place where
einar depicted the landscape in his revisions,
       and both of them are standing there
        and it's ****** pulverising with so much depth
upon being so little when reduced to a canvas
but because you see the painting first, do you later
see the landscape with more emotion...
     and i thought to myself: gerda will recreate
the landscape in her own eyes, she'll what he saw
and what he gave up for her to paint him in his
transformative (transfigurative) state of becoming
lili elbe...
                     that's why i was about to cry -
     that she could put lili aside, and return to /
resurrect the memory of einar the locally famous
artist... that she would apply the same technique in
painting lili / einar but turn her attention to
landscapes... as if to imply that both of them became
reunited before all the madness of life came chasing them
into extremes.
          to my dissatisfaction? after the film ended
and before the credits started rolling... postscriptum facts
after these true events... she continued to paint
lili / einar as she did, which prompted her to fame
on the Parisian estrade; after seeing that, written down?
tears? what tears... i'm actually thankful that i choked
on them and didn't do an outburst necessarily...
thank **** i wasn't watching the film alone!
     i know that i might have invoked a sense of:
rough around the edges with this description, but i'm hoping
it's abstract enough to make the film more potent:
filling the blanks with images;
still, this was used for a transgender movement?
                                                did he make it plainly obvious
that this was a transcendental transgender iconoclasm?
         it's the platonic element in it that steers this whole
story, away from what 21st century movements regard
as prototype for their ******.
Lunar Oct 2017
Have you ever looked at someone and thought that they aren't completely good-looking, but they're so attractive like a raw form of art, and even emptiness?

People tell you to move on to the next (and real, pure) form of art but you see potential in this raw one, and you just want to watch that change; watch that space be filled up.

You think of that emptiness as something, because nothing is still something, no matter how paradoxical or illogical it seems.

You want to witness the metamorphosis and you believe that it will change before your eyes, so you watch close and just believe.

It's taking me awhile to move on to see more but this raw art piece really has taken the highlight exhibit in my art museum of a mind.

Maybe because I'm an artist, I'm positive about this and I just keep hoping I could witness the change, if not be the artist to do the change myself.

A certain raw art form in my life has been changing; I'm not able to observe closely but to hear about it is more than enough and relieves me.

To you who is reading this, we don't settle for the perfect in reality. In truth, there isn't a perfect in reality. We aren't all artists by profession or by the definition of 'artists', but once one learns to look at people this way, one can be an artist.

An artist believes, accepts, and appreciates; finding beauty in everything. Once you find beauty in even the most simple, mundane or raw form of art, you find the artist in you.
we're all artists, especially when it comes to living.
Caroline Badon May 2018
I am not an artist
I cannot paint a beautiful landscape that makes you believe you're looking at the real thing.
You will not stare in awe as you wonder what compelled me to paint those lines so uneven
And I can't make my color choices dance in your eyes like sugarplum fairies
Off of the canvas and into your mind
For you to transpose the choreography
To your own understanding

I am not an artist
I cannot capture a single moment in time with the simple click of a camera.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words but every shot I capture seems to be silent
Mute
But they're beginning to be heard
Screaming millions of words
Hoping someone will just hear one

I am not an artist
I cannot make your skin shiver as my lyrics echo through the room
Your emotions will not crescendo as each note burns nostalgia in your memory
And I will not leave you wanting to hear more

I am not an artist
And I can't create a masterpiece in two hours
I can't write words that will break your heart as they enter your ears and fill your soul with the emotions I'm feeling
I can't make you believe that I'm actually the character
I tried so hard to become at rehearsals for the last three months
My movements on the dance floor dont flow with ease or grace
And you will never give me a standing ovation
Or shower me with roses as you cheer for the art I've created.

But
With every step that I take on this earth
I am leaving brush strokes in the dirt and in your memory
Every laugh
every sob
every word that I speak
Is going through your ears for your own musical enjoyment
My eyes are like cameras capturing every moment and every face each time my lashes flutter
And even though most of we don't have photographic memories
We still remember the precious moments our personal cameras caught on film

I am not an artist
I am art
Lyra Brown Mar 2013
Being an artist is hard. Especially when you write songs about love and love unrequited and addiction and death and wanting to die and wishing you were loved by the people who put their addictions before you and pain and self harm and hope and disappointment and everything that has made me insane.

The only thing I can do to make myself feel less insane is to write about it.

But as soon as you create something, it’s like “Well what the **** do I do now?”

Normal people would get a grant, make a record, go on tour.

Well guess what? I’m not a ******* normal person.

I have to deal with voices in my head 24/7 telling me I’m a failure, I’m a waste of space, that nobody cares about what I sing or do or make, that I would be doing myself a favour if I just ******* died already.

I have to deal with memories from my ****** up childhood that haunt me every day because my parents were too busy being addicted to alcohol and drugs to actually parent me.

Well guess what? I know that was unfair and sad etc, etc. I don’t want your pity. I know what my mind tells me are straight up lies. Depression is a mental illness and it doesn’t just go away because you’re intelligent enough to know that what your mind is telling you is not true.

But it’s the hardest thing anyone will ever have to live with and it makes it ten times more difficult to muster up enough confidence & self esteem to pursue being a musician, or writer or artist of any kind. Because being alone can be dangerous. I often feel so misunderstood and misheard by other people that I choose to be alone to do both them and myself a favour.

But that’s also *******. Because when you create something, no matter if it’s good or bad, you are giving something to the world that has never existed before.

Do you know how ******* beautiful that is?

What people don’t realize about artists is that the majority of them already are extremely  insecure and feel like failures and ****-ups.

The last thing I need from someone is for them to say:

“Oh, you have over 100 songs, how come you haven’t put out a record yet?”

“Here comes the girl who’s been saying the same thing for the past two years - that she’s ‘working on it.’”

Well you know what? I AM working on it. I don’t have to ******* defend myself to other people when they criticize me by saying things like this. You don’t have to sit hear and listen to me sing. No one is making you stay. They have no idea what I’ve been through, how I’ve changed, how I’m trying to heal, how healing does not come naturally to me. I was never taught how to heal. I was never taught how to live. And what I’m learning is that it is never too late to start trying.

I realize I’m getting older and time is passing but for someone to make some snide remark by commenting on how I seem like a failure is unacceptable, especially when I feel like one already.

My songs are a gift. I know that. I have given them away for free, to many people who, now that I think back on it, never even deserved to have them. Whether they’re jealous or mad or sad or whatever themselves, they don’t ******* need to put their insecurities on me when I clearly have enough of my own to begin with. We’re all human, how about we have some ******* compassion for each other?

There are a lot of things I’m not proud of. I have made many mistakes. I have wanted to die many times, and struggle with finding a reason to keep living daily. But music has always been the thing that has kept me alive. Music is what flows through my veins, and whether or not I “make a record” in the timeframe that people expect me to has nothing to do with what really matters.

Music has no timeframe.

Music has no jealousy or anger or resentment or insecurities.

Music is what saves lives, and I’ve been lucky enough to have the gift of making it and giving it to people in hopes that I can help them in some way. That’s what artists are made to do, help, make life more bearable, to transcend the pain of a ****** up life into a song that you can listen to and say: “****, this song sums it up, man!”

It’s a gift.

It doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t even belong to me.

So just eat some humble pie and get over yourself for one ******* minute because your criticism doesn’t change the ******* facts and I will be going at my own pace whether you like it or not, thank you very much.
Penelopejayde Oct 2018
if i’m not an artist what
on earth am I?
if i’m not an artist why
am i here?
if i’m not an artist now
then when?
if i’m not an artist why
can’t I be?
Am I an artist?
Anya Jul 2015
You are the luckiest when an artist loves you
For he or she will make you their masterpiece
In every way that they can
That others cannot
Yet, you must have forbearance
Whereas an artist will always have problems
Something will always be imperfect
Something will always be missing
You have to know what right words to say
For them to keep on going
Whatever it is
A painting, a poem, a novel, a song
An artist is good in a lot of things
It is their masterpiece
It is what keeps them alive
And you are their strength and inspiration
To make magic with their minds and hearts
By their mouths and hands
But, I can assure you,
You are the luckiest when an artist loves you
Blessed are the people who make us see the world differently!

— The End —