"artworks" poems
For my 11th birthday I bought myself the prettiest gift.
A paintbrush.
It was a shiny silver.
When I used it for the first time, I felt relieved.
The burdens fell off my shoulders onto my wrists.
I created the most beautiful crimson artworks.
I packed my burdens into fine lines, drawing the red of their weight.
I am an artist.
I am covered in my creations, from my wrists to my thighs.
Now, forever.
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 1:57 PM UTC
You say you're not good at art
but I've seen you create things
on your hardest days
and it's a masterpiece
knowing that the world is still so bright to you
Even at its darkest
And you are darling in the way
That you try to pick something
You love about yourself each day
Because you know great artworks
Aren't always beautiful as a whole
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
Someone was once able to create a chemical excitement within me//
Like when I looked at him I could see the power radiating from inside his skin//
And when he looked at me I could feel his stare in the deepest part of my gut//
Or when he touched me the power fled from his skin to mine //
Or when our lips met I could feel the electricity burning my flesh in the most beautiful way//
And when he said my name
The words rushed out of his mouth to create artworks in the air above us
Consisting of the most vibrant colors
causing a rush of energy flowing through my blood stream//
Someone was once able to create a synthetic exhilaration within me//
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
those that see beauty in everything feel the most discontent.
there are extreme emotions that one who is creative must process--
an unforced authenticity and tenacity to stay focused on a subject,
and to devote the same amount of attention to each entity, that you lose a sense of self and a sense of the world around you.
we use stress as a way of pushing us forward,
and only in moments of extreme stress does an amazing happening occur.
and for this, we are deemed odd, as a normal person thrives where they are most comfortable.
the originality that visionaries possess is exhausting, yet we admire it.
we allow for many things to flow in our minds without halt,
all notions and ideas taking up precedence, and this may be our greatest fault.
day break to sunset, my mind is racing non-stop, constantly,
to the point that sleep does nothing to quell the overthinking brain,
as my lucid dreams act as a force to keep me awake at night.
my mind is in a perpetual state of fantasy, sometimes during everyday life in bouts of daydreams,
imaging new situations and being unable to describe it all.
when I try to silence the thoughts that persistently flux through my mind,
my talents feel wasted during this time of artistic deprivation,
and only do I feel truly sound when I create new artworks for a few to discern.
sometimes I feel as though my mind feeds off on my depressive states,
as it takes the deepest of emotions to generate proufound art.
while I wish to be happy, I have a need to be in a bit of a sustained disarray.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
Autumns leaves undo
& all that's said carefully-
remains untrue
Unorganized these
unprecedented artworks
Powerfully heal.
Oct 2, 2023
Oct 2, 2023 at 5:14 AM UTC
I.
with my hand clutching my heart,
i anxiously swept my feet across
the hallway lined with a hundred artworks,
only to discover at the very end
that mine was just
one place short of an award.
i run all the way back the long hallway
to hide teardrops in a dark lonely corner
until my father
came and gave me
a comforting embrace.
his strong hands patted me on the back,
my tears stained his crisp polo as
i buried my face in his chubby belly.
he told me
that i'm the greatest artist
and that no matter what
he loves me.
II.
seeds planted in me bloomed
into realizations
and those realizations bred feelings
and like a tidal wave
the sea of emotions
surged over me
and overflowed to my eyes
chest felt heavy and
my head felt light.
i made my way through the dark and crowded room
to my brother
and in front of all his friends
tackled him in a hug.
he scuffled my hair and locked me in his arms,
and i couldn't believe he hugged me back
instead of pushing me away.
he told me
that he was stupid
and that he was sorry.
III.
he held me back as everyone else went down
the winding staircase.
i knew too well that this day would come
but i injected myself with lies
that February can feel like forever.
but the truth prevailed
and the truth hurts.
our cheeks brush and blush.
he got me on the tips of my toes
and his thick sweater caught my tears
as we wrap each other in a long embrace.
i let go of him and dropped my hands
because the moment felt too right but
he hugged me tighter
and he swayed me
gently
back and forth...
back and forth...
back and forth...
contrary
to the wild beat of my heart.
he told me
his final goodbye
and that he will miss me.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
Nobiembre 2015 –
Ika-14, ihahandog kay Mi ang 7-7-7 regalo
Para sa nalalapit na kaarawan nito
Ika-15, magpapa-picture ang MiJo
Para sa huling CGI Artworks nito
Ika-16, paghahandog ng pangalawang 7-7-7 obra maestra
Ika-18, huling pagtatagpo habang APEC Summit sa bansa!
-11/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*7th MiJo poem
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 8:37 PM UTC
I finally understand why renaissance artists
took their sweet time with their paintings
and why it took them decades to even dare
to begin working on a new one again.
I finally understand why my rock heroes
wasted years of their lives waiting for lyrics,
no matter how many hours they pour
and drink, creating melodies and music.
I finally understand why poets and beaus
would rather leave when words run dry
when artworks are new and songs are due,
that is the cue poems must bleed and cry.
Because like our love, a rare shade of blue,
like a ballad only played by the lucky few;
A love like ours is not the everyday kind,
because a love like this is rare to find.
Jul 18, 2022
Jul 18, 2022 at 9:58 AM UTC
Writing creates a paradigm.
Much like a camera, it is a paradigm that we can look through in order to see the world, or create one, from a different perspective.
I decided to step away from my art and look at the lens itself instead of looking through it.
What I found is that we are able to paint pictures with words, pictures that don’t exist and we can create artworks with those pictures that allow you to see them in the most magical way possible while knowing that each artwork is different and unique depending on the person that composes it.
It is being able to travel the world as we know it through symbols and letters while not moving an inch from where we are in time and lead ourselves to a beautiful yet twisted sense of duality.
Maybe it’s the feeling of godhood in creating life, worlds or even stories yet I am still human but I become a god outside of time.
I take my imagination and make it tangible.
They say actions speak louder than words but I am a writer and words are all I have. So, maybe one day, as these words drip from my fingertips they will find you and they will drown your thoughts with beautiful pictures and hopefully, you might just understand,
Why we write.
They say actions speak louder than words,
But there’s still a reason why the pen is mightier than the sword.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC
Cut in half and also double,
The time I take from each perception, Sifting through the artworks ruble-
Changes constantly, with new direction
Words which placate then befuddle
Like an instinctive, intervention.
Longingly, negating trouble,
Empirically, a resurrection.
All the while my medications
(Pills to fix the way we feel)
Unraveling fast deviation
Investing in what isn't real.
Oh Destroyer, and Creater;
The Accention & Decline-
How we Falsify & fabricate,
Then factually Define.
Jan 8, 2023
Jan 8, 2023 at 5:24 AM UTC
Shes a mixture of pretty sunrises and scenematic sunsets.
Her aura glow feels like a romantic full moon rise during a cold evening,full of love, warmth and light she's always a beautiful encounter.
She excites my spirit so much that her vibrations jump into the creation of the most mind blowing artworks.
As emotions of her feels get displayed on a digital canvas. - BayB Blue Aura - Swoo
Apr 4, 2022
Apr 4, 2022 at 10:12 AM UTC
He's consist of artworks and paintings,
music and movies,
Heart without he is plain art
Art is what he loves to do
Can't think of anyone but you,
Just you.
Aug 10, 2020
Aug 10, 2020 at 5:20 AM UTC
An eccentric museum accepting visitors even at midnight
Diverse artworks littered the walls
The artworks were the walls
And there you were, a mediocre painting
Barely beautiful, but intensely intriguing
Such an ordinary painting as you have caught my attention
Contained in a frame created out of flimsy, cheap wood
With curves and lines not deemed comely by standards
But to me, in a way, appealing
You bear revolting edges which deplores me
But pleasant colors fill some of your space
Far from magnificent, greatly lacking to be a masterpiece
These hands of mine tremble with want to refine you
I've got paintbrushes for fingers, tubes of visions for colors
Dexterous are my hands as my mind is creative
Let my touches sketch your path to grandeur
But you are your own art, you are your own
The words reverberate within my skull
I chain my own hands down and battle with the urge
If I cannot appreciate you, I shan't recreate you
One last stare, before I look away
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
What if mother nature is mad at us?
She told us that
our fumes are poisonous
our water turned from majestic blue to coal seaweed color
her innocent animals are dying from bullets and thorns
plastic flying on branches as if they were nature green leaves
she told us this
And we did not listen to her
we did not
we took her for granted
So she got mad
created something that can destroy the ones who betrayed her
a virus that kills us
making us afraid to leave from the safe box
She is not evil
she is only trying to help the animals live longer
and live with no fear
Venice water is clear as a mirror
for dolphins to swim
for swans to dance
they are living with no fear
she's happy her artwork can't be destroyed
for now
we owe her an apology for the mistakes we created
we must stop the hateful crime
and love the artworks she created
before once again we suffer in pain
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 9:49 AM UTC
Appreciation amid glorious people
They sound speak resound
Fantastically
Ah and we are just as they say
In the grand sphere
Of poetic masterpieces just
Amateurs
When if you read much
Feel
HP poets are masterpieces
Writhing psalms odes
Songs and heartfelt
Artworks daily
As poets are defined by effort
Heart and good designs
I know no place
Other where all these
Parts exist in better people.
I am often lack in
Saying or plussing or recognizing
This very fact.
HP poets are the best.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
We are all museums
of anger and discontent
and we feel obligated to
show our artworks
to the world.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 7:12 PM UTC
And sitting with you
I get to relive exactly where I’ve been before.
Only days ago.
Come full circle.
My flip-book details the same seconds of
unrequited confusion and unwanted heart to neglect.
Life is made up of cycles.
All it is
are cycles breeding more cycles;
circles one can choose to stop circling
to replace it with another.
It is the mixture that we cycle through;
the number of repeats,
the speed with which we tumble, and roll,
and dive head-first into an oblivion with all the colours
of artworks and fireworks, vibrancy and vitality.
The people who make up small cycles, large cycles,
the in-between lonely transition between new circles and loops
to contemplate, fight, submit under gentle lulls and thrilling loops,
that we educate ourselves to thrive upon, those that
we unlearn because of disappointment.
Each cycle doesn’t make it the
love affair it once was.
The friendship it could have been.
The tempting mirage of escape we were to each other.
The fuel and coursing fire that once was our motivation.
It doesn’t get simpler to manoeuvre the longer you cycle,
with you, without you, around you, for you, because of you,
too scared to lose you…
it’s still the same sticky sharp bend in the pipeline
the same foreplay of games;
‘now, who loves you most?’;
fingered silences’;
your heated chase and me always one step behind;
I have to branch off the loop
to prevent myself falling over you in the dark;
toxicity bubbling under surfaces red, raw,
swollen and teary;
I know my triggers.
My shotgun is you.
I know I feel something- to not feeling anything at all.
I may only be able to walk in circles,
but at least I can make them the right circles to trace.
I need that physical space; that walk-through
corridor in my head.
And now I get to sit with you,
realising I’ve been here all before,
not quite so long before.
Only days ago.
Come full circle.
And I think it’s time for me,
to be over your cycle.
On to the new circular track.
And the later loops and whirls I get to
embrace
on my rounds.
Well and truly,
over you.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 6:30 AM UTC
Late night musings and a warm cup of tea
Adoring artworks and thinking about thee
As I welcome the sunrays softly greeting goodmorning
The birds chirping, oh what a beautiful timing
A light drizzle upon the break of daylight
This is just what I need, I feel the universe smile
And in moments like this I'm in euphoria
In little things, my tiny dreams, this is love - nothing but amazing.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
i was sitting here
searching for how to
do something mundane.
worklike.
syncing accounts.
trying to find passwords.
downloading data.
i sprinkled eucalyptus around
earlier to try
to make myself feel better.
i lit a candle and everything and
even pretend made my bed.
cranked the air conditioning.
so i could cool off.
and calm down.
and r e s t.
i took 2 dove milk chocolates
and ice cold water to my room.
i just wanted to watch
Stargate Atlantis
and go to sleep.
lazily mining for data
half paying attention
and suddenly an
intergalactic time portal
opened up before my eyes.
and boom.
(i'm here again)
in this place
of so much
l o v e
my heart pounding
as if no time has gone by.
as if you had just come around
the corner and i see your face
again for the
first time.
literally tachycardia
a loss of all logic
a stupid, stupid grin
my body shaking
in anticipation
of hearing your voice.
by accident.
gigabyte after gigabyte after gigabyte
and year, after year, after y e a r
and no matter which
one i choose,
i find pieces of you.
funny little pieces.
big, honest pieces.
secret pieces.
my pieces.
tears are streaming
d o w n my face
but i don't care
because it is the only
time i can remember
what it was like.
to be a different person.
in a different time.
to overlap with you.
every click
and swipe
songs
artworks
words
photos
texts
the reaching and
the r e t r e a t i n g.
the coming together and
the sudden
f
a ll
in g
a p
art
all neatly in chronological
order like i'm
reading my own story.
but seeing it from
the outside.
the entire picture.
and i can see
where i was wrong
i n t e n s e
younger
and stupider
and flailing.
but i have always seen you.
always from the
very first moment.
you were like an assault
but in a cosmic sense.
and at the same time
a peaceful, serene, beautiful,
rare combination of atoms and ****
and i don't think something like that
could ever happen again.
i can't even imagine it,
and imagining is the
only thing i'm good at.
curse the interwebs,
saving all this ****
i didn't even realize.
and thought was lost.
but also thank you,
google overlord.
i think it's ok to cry
about loving someone,
and missing someone
so so so so much.
because nothing matters more
than being honest
about your love.
and then i looked out
my window in despair
and i saw
a crescent moon.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 11:56 PM UTC
Escape from captivity pulled off
when I came of age
boyhood begrudged,
and bested by brigandage,
but willpower sans declaration
of independence begot bravery
against British brutes
bridging caper (involving collusion)
to bust loose from cage,
and trappings forcibly to plunder artworks
and sculpted treasures
by classical masters
without causing damage
taught by professional thieves
requiring minimal equipage
whereat over time footage
sordid memory constantly replayed
plunder and pillage unwittingly
fostering getaway
from hell raising gambits
planting seed to gauge
optimal instance cut footloose
cutting dashing Dickensian goniff
to feign criminal shenanigans
running rampant with militant spunky gangs
"FAKING" das spies zing
trumpeting hostage killing
and taking, nonetheless
swallowing bitter pill
reeking havoc as honorable image
in order to survive
within world wide
web of criminals (especially
an unwelcome foreigner),
where skills as buccaneer
really put to test, and tried
maximum lawlessness partaken
in (dolled up) guise suppressing shied
pitifull looking indigent vagabond
self away by donning
"FAKE" whippersnapper
benefiting getting to sally and ride
always exuding patriotic pride
pleasing ghosts of founding fathers
against their autonomy from
crown weathering woe be chide
recrimination impossible
to enforce as bride
of Lady Liberty opened arms for those,
who made dangerous journey
across avast ocean
only to confront (whodunit) thuggery
this lifestyle ****** looting,
and burning WITHOUT choice,
but guilt aye didst abide.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Retrospective many generations since
marking birth of a nation
(The United States of America),
now mecca, sans land of milk and honey
current president imposed antithetical ration!
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
It's more than just a country
It's more than just history
It's more than what people see
Cause they only see a very small portion
And what I see,
Is the big picture
Much more beautiful than all Picasso's artworks
For to me,
It's mother nature's masterpiece
One that keeps on getting prettier with age;
How shall I say it ,
It's an international controversy'
It's Rwanda
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
It was the tattoo that
did it for me
the one on her neck
I could see,
but the one down below,
the one not on show,
the one that she told me I
could go
take a look
took my breath
away.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
I might be trapped in this cupboard,
But my mind and soul wanders on its own.
They don't need legs,
Or wings,
To go anywhere it pleases.
They flew away from me yesterday
To visit you and show you my love,
To take a tour through San Francisco
With its winding slopes,
Where the mountains meet the bay.
They swam over to London,
Go spotting for Banksy artworks,
Skipped down to Russia swigging
Down that ***** halfway there to
Wash away all attachements.
But I guess the ***** wasn't enough
Cause I'm still here.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC