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Ann M Johnson Sep 2014
One day there was a bright glowing canvas, a pure sparkling white
It was beautiful, but not complete
Then someone came along and drew lines on it to form flowers and mountains and streams, it was more beautiful and it made the natural white look more distinct
Then one day someone else added color and the canvas radiated and became more and more complete, it seemed whole and functional
Suddenly, one day someone came along and slew the canvas, destroying its color till it showed black, and an ugly black
The canvas seems so drab so empty without its color, so lifeless
People refused to help the canvas, refused to anything about the canvas slayer refused to listen to the canvas’ plea
Instead the canvas slayer’s free to roam free to hurt and damage other canvas
Who will restore the canvas?
Who will bring justice?
Why is the canvas slayer free to roam while the canvas feels imprisoned, crushed, victimized?
Why is the canvas treated like a criminal?
When will the canvas feel free, joyful and peaceful?

THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO VICTIM'S OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND OTHER FORMS OF ABUSE.
I went through domestic abuse in the past and that is why I had wrote the above poem.
Ann M Johnson Sep 2013
One day there was a bright glowing canvas, a pure sparkling white
It was beautiful, but not complete
Then someone came along and drew lines on it to form flowers and mountains and streams, it was more beautiful and it made the natural white look more distinct
Then one day someone else added color and the canvas radiated and became more and more complete, it seemed whole and functional
Suddenly, one day someone came along and slew the canvas, destroying its color till it showed black, and an ugly black
The canvas seems so drab so empty without its color, so lifeless
People refused to help the canvas, refused to anything about the canvas slayer refused to listen to the canvas’ plea
Instead the canvas slayer’s free to roam free to hurt and damage other canvas
Who will restore the canvas?
Who will bring justice?
Why is the canvas slayer free to roam while the canvas feels imprisoned, crushed, victimized?
Why is the canvas treated like a criminal?
When will the canvas feel free, joyful and peaceful?
THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO VICTIM'S OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND OTHER FORMS OF ABUSE.
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.
John Stevens Aug 2012
The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.
Amazing young lady.  Her paintings are truly works of art.
http://www.capturedmomentsartwork.com/
Marz Ataio Aug 2018
I splattered red on a blank canvas
Randomly, without a second thought
Aggressively, impatiently
And some had the audacity to call it art

I took a pen to that marked canvas
I thought it neither right nor wrong
Defiling or glamorizing?
What I had created was lifelong

And then I cut my canvas to pieces
It felt so good to shred it all up
That blank, white canvas had turned into
A catharsis for a build up!

Who are you to tell me what to do

With MY canvas?
How dare you try and judge my art!
If all art is subjective,
Who are you to intervene in my canvas falling apart?

I love my canvas!
In all its marked up glory
My canvas is much prettier now,
Now it tells my story!
MJ Mar 2014
My body was once a blank canvas

But that hardly lasted very long

People came and they went, each leaving a distinct mark

Some of those marks are still highly present, while others have since faded

The marks that are most visible are the ones you left

They’re on my skin and on my bones

They have penetrated every aspect of my being and it is impossible to scrub myself clean of them

I can only hope that by adding to my canvas that you will eventually fade

I can only hope that someone comes along who leaves writing and art and a beautiful masterpiece on what was once blank

I can only hope that what I add to my canvas covers what you left

I can only hope that my canvas remains intact from all those who have left their mark

There is so much I want to add to my canvas

There are experiences and art and people that I have yet to know

I want to never be blank again

I want vibrant masterpieces painted on my body, on my bones, in my soul

I want people and experiences to come and leave their mark

I want to shine bright and happy to that those I reveal my canvas to

I want all that see my true colors to know how unique I am and that I am not like everyone else

The canvas of my body may have once been blank, but those days are long gone

The canvas of my body has been painted, torn, repaired, cleaned, and painted again

The canvas of my body is something that is uniquely mine and if I reveal myself to you, you better feel **** special


-m.j.
Saltnoon Dec 2015
She is not just an empty canvas for you to fill up your filthy art
She is not just an empty canvas for you to flow out your dark desires in red seduction
She is not just an empty canvas for you to write out your ***** poetry in paint
She is not just an empty canvas for you to colour her in pink and purple that are made up of your lies
She is not just an empty canvas for you to throw out your anger in chili red and orange like fire
You may be empty and lonely but you should never let yourself be destroyed by the artist that can paint you in colorful lies.
Poetic T May 2014
My fingers caress your body
like a paint brush, I paint each
part slowly to know the points
which are the sensitive to my
brush on your canvas skin.

My lips are the red, they touch
your canvas slowly, as I move
over it goose bumps and moans
as sensitive parts are touched
skin to lips the canvas reacts.

I dip my fingers in to your awaiting
paint box, your ecstasy as my
brushes slowly dip in and out,
I dip once more and lick the
tips a taste of perfection now
painted on my lips.

You are my canvas of sin, I will
paint pleasure on your skin, my
fine brushes are lips as they
caress the canvas and my fingers
are the the hard brush strokes
against your flesh as they dip in
around your paint box my fingers
tasted your pleasure within.

You are my naked canvas, that I
will turn in to my master piece of
pleasure, skin to skin are paints
will mix and pleasure is our brush
stokes on each others skin.
Marisa Lu Makil Feb 2015
My life is a canvas all bumpy and plain.
Each time I do something, a strike will be made.
If, for instance, I do something cruel, or bad,
Come darkened, black colors to make me all sad.
But then, if I do something happy or nice,
Then comes the rainbow all lovely and bright.

My life is a canvas all bumpy and brown
Each time I step forward, I take a step down.
It's a wondr'ous burden, these colors of mine.
They oft' make me think of hurt and demise.
I try to withstand it the one way I can:
By topping more on-make others feel bad.

My life is a canvas and as you might see,
Doing more evil puts evil in me.
It roars and it bites more often than not
And my only comfort is a small bright spot.
I call him my comfort, my savior, my Lord.
He saved my dark canvas-he saved the whole world!

My life is a canvas and as you may see:
The evil tries to burn me up and take away the key.
The key-my Lord, my savior is always there for me.
Wheth'r dragons bring me down, or others drown me in the sea.
What will you do with your canvas and all your darkest blots?
I beg you to make room for the little bright spot.
Styles May 2017
Her flesh
was his canvas
his hands spread over her body
like paint saturating its canvas
emotions surfaced
like oil paintings
her body shivered dying for his strokes
long throws of passion
sliding across her body like
satin brushes over skin
Elizabeth Burns Dec 2015
I feel as if my soul has been awakened from its long slumber in that dark and desolate evening. I feel as if my eyes have been opened from their sleep of a dull, grey and morbid life that has now been torn from the page and replaced by something new and white. Something white that is an empty canvas, but this canvas will not be grey again. This canvas will shine in that once dark night that will now turn a bright and burning white, blinding actually. This canvas will be filled with paint that tells the story of a new song, a new life and that new breathe of the living me.
This canvas is myself and I will not allow myself to be subdued nor burdened by this dull world who believes in moving, moving, moving, but never actually getting anywhere... I've decided that I will believe in magic again. I will not allow myself to dwell in suffering, for today is a new day and this is a new song that will not allow its rhythm to stop. It will not allow its heart to stop beating. This heart will never stop, this canvas will never be striked by the hand of evil because this canvas will be a bright and burning white, a blinding white.
Irkar Beljaars Mar 2018
The old man sits and waits, staring at an empty canvas. A canvas that awaits his thoughts, his fears, his pain and his love.

The old man drifts from thought to thought. At first he sees his cold mother and distant father, he sees the train station being leveled by the bombs of a madman.

He sees himself running through the fields where bodies have fallen. The ground wet by the tears of those who survived. He sees himself taken away by those in black with white collars, he remembers the sting of their violations.

He tries to escape but the scars remain, spreading through his body like a plague, it denies him speech and it fills him with hate. When the madman's bombs cease to fall he is allowed to leave but part of him remains in that building of shame.

He is not the same when he sees family again, for the scars remain as well as the shame. The old man stares at the empty canvas, remembering everything stolen from him, his love, his beauty, his voice.

He falls down.

Until love reaches out and extends her hand to him, she helps him find his voice, his beauty and his love. She helps to stand and for a time the canvas is filled with love and beauty. But the scars remain.

Love is not strong enough, she soon becomes overwhelmed. His pain, his shame forces her to flee. He is alone once again, his canvas is empty again.

His voice starts to die, he starts to cry. He falls. He cannot heal for he knows not how, years go by and his canvas remains dry. The scars remain. Until one day...

There is a knock at the door, it is the old mans son with scars of his own. The son tells his father that he forgives him, that he may have scars but they do not define him.

The father begins to cry, for no one had ever told him that forgiveness was allowed. The shame had taught him that. The son tells him that he can heal once he begins to forgive himself.

How says the old man

Speak! Says his son, speak until the scars have no power. He begins to speak, and colors begin to appear on the canvas, soon fields of green meadows and blue sky’s explode across the canvas.

All the while the man is speaking, he talks about the mad man and his bombs. The men in black with white collars and the soldiers weeping for their lost friends. About the love that tried to rescue him.

Soon the canvas fills the room with images of beauty and color, the beauty that was trapped in his soul, the beauty that is now free.

Old man begins to cry and his son asks why? These are not tears of pain says the father but of disappointment. I’m an old man he says, I’ve been a prisoner for so long. But today you are not says the son, today you are free.

The father smiles, what is it asks his son. I need another canvas for tomorrow he says for there is more to say.
Inspired by my father.
Liz Jun 2013
I was given a cream canvas
That was clean and pure and unused
I dirtied it with age

I was given a cream canvas
And with anger and hatred
I dirtied it with crimson

I was given a cream canvas
I wanted to cover the red
I dirtied it with drawings

I was given a cream canvas
That aged alongside myself
I dirtied it with age

I was given a cream canvas
The cream canvas was my skin
I dirtied it with life.
Spenser Bennett May 2016
Speak grace into the canvas of my silent heart
Words of love and musical laughter part from your gold velvet lips
Strength enough to carry away pain and suffering from my weary eyes
Speak grace into the canvas of my silent heart

Dance like fire wild in the ink drop watercolor night
Passion stained cheeks glow from beneath lovers eyes
Sparks soar higher than the thunder head eagles play
Dance like fire wild in the ink drop watercolor night

Breath soft as the world settles slow and rise with the lazy star heat
Forget the troubles of days behind and look for warmth in my furnace chest
Delicate sighs of whispered vows tremble about the air
Breath soft as the world settles slow and rise with the lazy star heat

Speak grace into the canvas of my silent heart
Words of love and musical laughter part from your gold velvet lips
Strength enough to carry away pain and suffering from my weary eyes
Speak grace into the canvas of my silent heart
L E Dow Sep 2010
One misstep,
an ill placed footfall,
the single clumsy blunder,
can ruin even the most graceful
trips.

The mortal enemy of canvas
is the day the sun doesn’t shine.
The day the sky sheds its grey onto earth.
Whether rain or snow,
it doesn’t matter much.

One misstep,
and cold hearted canvas
absorbs the error you’d like to erase.
Mistakes fade,
but will always be remembered
by your cold, wet socks,
and the cold-hearted canvas.
Copyright Dec. 29th 2009 Lauren E. Dow
Hazel Hirsch Sep 2016
Dust on my
Charcoal
Canvas.
Just brush it off
A night of peace
A galaxy of blown stars.
An attempt at an imperfect perfection.

But I wipe it away, anyway.
My constellation is too dangerous
for Anyone Else.

So I **** my night heaven with light pollution,
And diminish my stars.
And I'm just a canvas
A Blank,
          Empty,
                    Canvas.
Now, look what we've done.
Selena Irulan Sep 2013
An image painted on a canvas
For the whole world to see
Is the image what they notice
Or is it what truly lies beneath
On the outside there's beauty
Radiating a hint of happiness
Filled with life and enthusiasm
Enjoyed by all who see, or notice
The hands that created this masterpiece
Must have been solid, and stern
For the wall that holds this canvas
Has a black lining the eyes can't see
Bitterness, shallow, and heartless
Covered with a coating of gold
To the human eye to seem like perfection
For there is no happiness within
An abundance of repentance
that grows under this image,
stretching high up along the walls
The image of everlasting beauty
Trees swaying in the background
Beautiful flowers blooming abundantly
The sun shining as though just ripened
Birds soaring through the air,
chirping this magical, mystical morning
Dew lying upon the image
leaving a sparkle to catch the eye
The image seen as it is wanted to be seen
Painted from the mind of someone
needing perfection taking nothing less
Knowing you can't cut a stone with scissors
Or fly like a bird without wings
You can't even create perfection
When there is no such a thing.
Minus all the beauty that this image holds
Would your attention be captured the same
If by fascination you could see with it
Without it what would you see
A canvas hanging on a wall alone
No beauty within or without
Black walls that line the canvas, no image
Empty, rebellious, alone
Fascination is taken away by reality
Once the image becomes clear it is no longer
an image, nor perfection you see
Though now noticeable the canvas
rests on the wall that is lined in black
Plain as the sky on a glorious day
The canvas holds no image of beauty
No image of any kind
It was merely what someone wanted you to see
Hoping that in reality the image
would always be there, stay the same
Beautiful, happy, loving
Speaking a thousand words just
from what your mind captured
It is now faint to the eyes, clear
That this canvas is nothing more
than a dishonest piece of work.
extasis Jan 2010
Old eyes rise
Sun slowly opens upon a room
Old bones shift and creak and shiver into motion
red-veined eyes flit about
focus on this and that
figure stubbornly drifts
over here and over there
amidst it all: a blinding surface
white canvas, stretched until it can stretch no more
glaring, screaming, pleading, suggesting
more and more intense at every moment
the room is the canvas
ancient eyes lock themselves upon the intensity
Ancient, dark, spindly hands push through the air
the canvas is a searing vision
the spindles pluck at the liquid colour
carefully dipping into the pools
collision of vision and now...passion
dark, flowing hands, delicate, fingers drift over canvas
a soft, dripping, spindle presses itself into the blinding intensity
bright passions left in its wake
there is no room
only vision
there is no ancient
no age
only passion
passion permeates the vision
grabs it and throws it about
threads it through the medium
the room is filled with passion
the canvas fills the eyes
intensity shaking those creaking and creeping joints
spindles, whisk to and from the colour and the vision
specks of passion, drops of vision speckle the room
time clicks
a light dims
a canvas is no more
a vision lives
ancient, wise eyes drift away
sun drifts it's way closed
a figure creeps it's way to a small, rugged mat
old, ancient, red-veined, dark, knowing, wise eyes set
tomorrow is another canvas
Candy Glidden Jul 2010
An image painted on a canvas
For the whole world to see
Is the image what they notice
Or is it what truly lies beneath
On the outside there's beauty
Radiating a hint of happiness
Filled with life and enthusiasm
Enjoyed by all who see, or notice
The hands that created this masterpiece
Must have been solid, and stern
For the wall that holds this canvas
Has a black lining the eyes can't see
Bitterness, shallow, and heartless
Covered with a coating of gold
To the human eye to seem like perfection
For there is no happiness within
An abundance of repentance
that grows under this image,
stretching high up along the walls
The image of everlasting beauty
Trees swaying in the background
Beautiful flowers blooming abundantly
The sun shining as though just ripened
Birds soaring through the air,
chirping this magical, mystical morning
Dew lying upon the image
leaving a sparkle to catch the eye
The image seen as it is wanted to be seen
Painted from the mind of someone
needing perfection taking nothing less
Knowing you can't cut a stone with scissors
Or fly like a bird without wings
You can't even create perfection
When there is no such a thing.
Minus all the beauty that this image holds
Would your attention be captured the same
If by fascination you could see with it
Without it what would you see
A canvas hanging on a wall alone
No beauty within or without
Black walls that line the canvas, no image
Empty, rebellious, alone
Fascination is taken away by reality
Once the image becomes clear it is no longer
an image, nor perfection you see
Though now noticeable the canvas
rests on the wall that is lined in black
Plain as the sky on a glorious day
The canvas holds no image of beauty
No image of any kind
It was merely what someone wanted you to see
Hoping that in reality the image
would always be there, stay the same
Beautiful, happy, loving
Speaking a thousand words just
from what your mind captured
It is now faint to the eyes, clear
That this canvas is nothing more
than a dishonest piece of work.
Copyright2004  Candy R. Glidden
Daniel Wetter Feb 2013
Paper.
Is canvas so white,
I ruin what it is every time that i write.
Or create what it had the potential to be...art.
So she breaks me down.
Uncreates someone that had potential to be...smart
but dumbed down,
lower than the ground,
to appease his main squeeze.
Everytime she came around,
it was like he lost his ground;
and with lost ground comes broken dreams.
Broken hearts and unspoken things,
that needed to be said.
I cant believe the things I've heard or seen.
*******
**** kisser.
*******.
used to love her,
now I miss her,
every hot summer.
Every cold winter,
to hold so close.
Like a puzzle we would fit we could sit nose to nose,
and not say a word,
not move one muscle,
we would still find a way to get us into trouble.
The better we were,
the worse that we got.
However clever our harsh words were,
we always worried a lot.
When things got too good,
we hurried to stop.
And blame got very,very blurry a lot.
Our own worst enemy.
Or are we?
Who are we?
We’re not we.
We are you and me.
Separate as could be,
ill be a,
you and you be z
because you see...
we were a canvas so white.
You ruined what we were
with the habits and the fights.
Now we is a past tense term,
that isn't spoken
because its known when,
brought up
the subject takes a wrong turn.
And things are said that were never meant.
Ego’s tongue spits out its two cents.
But more than two or three or four,
so many cents we’re talking dollar stores.
So many ups downs all arounds,
peaks and valleys,
so many smells and sounds,
that equal you.
Like a sequel taking me back to the first time,
the very first case of some stomach butterflies.
But now i feel empty,
so empty down inside.
If you hadn’t marked this canvas,
this blank white canvas of mine.
Stephanie May 2018
I have a canvas.
It's filled with all kinds of pleasant colors.
I usually paint it with kindness.
A smile is meant to make people trust you.
Let's layer the canvas with a few nice words.
Some wittiness too.
Laughter is always appreciated.
Just don't add any undesirable colors.
It has to be bright and beautiful.
No dull colors.
Dull colors are hated.
Even if the dull colors are a part of you don't add them.
Keep it up.
Don't falter.
If you slip up they'll hate the canvas and everything it contains.
Each brush stroke will never be in vain, just keep it up.
Don't let them see the dull colors.
All that's needed is brilliance because no one appreciates a dull canvas.
Even though you sometimes love the dull colors don't ever reveal them.
Bury them under layers of color.
It's like this the painting is beautiful.
Everyone loves beauty.
Even if it's not the true colors of the canvas, all that matters is to be loved.
Circa 1994 Jan 2013
October 3, 2012 10:49pm

It’s a sensual process.
Watching him paint.
But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.
He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.
I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s ****. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.
The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.
Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.
His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.
He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.
We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.
I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it.
Joel A Doetsch Sep 2012
There was once a rich and powerful man, known throughout the globe
for his accomplishments, for his wealth, for his power and his vision
He built his empire from sand and dust, with blood and bone

One day he desired to become immortalized in a fine painting

He wanted it to be the finest painting ever conceived -- painted by the hand of a god
He wanted people to look upon the work with tears in their eyes, staring at the beauty
that they beheld

He scoured the nation, looking for the artist that would create his masterpiece
day after day, lines formed at his estate as he took each one in
and sampled their artwork, and their sketches.

Weeks passed

None impressed him.  He became distraught

"Is there no man in this world who can possibly create the wonder that I desire?  Is there no man who can immortalize me in such a way that words could not describe the perfection?"

A voice crackled behind him.

"Well...no MAN can.  I, however, am not a man"

He turned to see a short creature behind him.  It was short with blue skin and orange eyes.  It's sharp teeth gleened as it smiled.

"What on earth are you?  Why are you here?"
"What I am is no matter, though you can call me Velnard. What I'm here to do is paint you"

The man frowned

"What is your cost?"

"I only ask that you never leave the painting that I've created"
"I would never leave it anywhere!  If it's as wonderful as I hope it to be, it would stay with me for eternity!"

Velnard smiled.

"Then we have an agreement!"
The man smiled and extended his hand, which was grasped firmly by a claw

Suddenly, a large canvas was hanging from the ceiling

The man looked around

"Where would you like me to stand?  Have you no paint?"
"Ah!  You can just stand there for a moment.  The paint will be ready shortly"

The man stood, regarding the small creature.  His hand was itching after shaking on the deal.  Minutes passed.  Neither party moved.  The man became impatient.

"Are you going to start?  I have other things to attend to today."
"I think you'll find that this is more important"
"Well then get to it already!"
"I already have"
"You've done nothing the entire time we've stood here!"
"No, the paint is nearly ready"

The man had lost his patience.  "This is ridiculous", he spat, as he derisively flicked his hand at the creature, motioning him to begone.  He heard a splatter on the floor and looked down.  On the ground, a foot or so in front of him was a droplet of pinkish-brown paint.  He looked around for the source, to no avail.  He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he looked at the creature.

"What are you playing at, Velnard?"

Only then did he notice something was odd.

His chin felt wet.  He pulled his handkerchief and wiped it off and when he looked down, the white cloth was covered in a similar pigment as what was on the floor.  He looked at his hand to see it was covered in paint.

"What trickery is this!?"

He wiped it away, only to find more.  He frantically wiped more to see the pinkish tint turn to red.

Velnard piped in

"It would do you well to stop that.  That's blood.  Well, actually it's paint...but it was blood."

The man was livid.  "What have you done to me!?"

"I'm painting" was the curt, rather emotionless response.

The man felt the oozing moving up his arm and to his chest and looked down to see his clothes starting to drip, no longer as fine cloth.  He lifted his leg, and it made a sickening sound as it peeled from the ground, leaving a black imprint on the ground.  The rest of his body was beginning to look like the Sagrada Familia.

He tried to yell, but his teeth and tongue were becoming more malleable by the second.

"WHAT HARVE YRU DORNE TER MEER"

"I'm immortalizing you, my dear friend!  You're just about ready!"

"THRSRSNORTWHRTIWRNTD"

Velnard cackled.  "Perhaps not what you wanted, but what you agreed to.  One should always read the contract before shaking hands with a strange creature."

The man started to cry, but his tears only served to smudge his eyeballs, making it difficult to see.

"Oh dear, you're going to smear your colors if you keep that up.  Anyway, we're at the moment of truth!  The canvas is ready"

The man struggled to stay upright as his knees slowly were softening.  His breathing became ragged as his insides started melting.

"You have a choice, my friend.  You can either stand here and melt into a puddle of you-colored paint, or you can use the last of your strength and jump into my canvas.  You will be immortalized and people will gaze upon your beauty and cry tears of joy.  Is that not what you wanted?"

The man's mouth was drooping as if he had heard some rather shocking news, his body now looked like a failed attempt at pottery.  He knew another minute and he wouldn't be able to move the few feet to the canvas.

"Tick tock" chimed Velnard

The man, in despair, willed his goopy muscles to make one more movement.  He dove towards the canvas, splattering himself across it.  A giant human-shaped splotch mark was all that was left.  The room became quiet.

Velnard walked up to the canvas and touched it.  The ink shifted and splayed until it became the man.  

He was glorious.  He was immortal.

Just as he was promised.
BertJane Perez Apr 2015
My life was black and white
A colorless canvas that stood barren
Color was never essential
It was never a necessity of mine.

Yet somehow in my own dull perception
A dot had formed right in the center
A bright dot to say the least...

A peculiar thing I had never seen before
It grew slowly, little by little
A storm of color emerged with each inch
Brown, Yellow, Blue, Purple...
So many different colors

My canvas was no longer colorless
In fact it was the complete opposite.
It was not plain and it was not normal
It was now a work of art.

People gawked at its odd style
Praised it for its unusual strokes
A bizarre spectacle to most
And a quite unexpected transformation for me...

"Who painted this strange piece?"
Before I knew it people were staring at me.
Puzzling eyes that clapped in my direction

"Congratulations on your success"
Words that made me realize I was the painter
I was the one holding the brush
The "******" who painted my own path
The one who put color into my life

"Sign the painting" They all cheered
But now that I know I'm the painter
My work of art is not finished yet
I have unfinished business in my life

I cannot quit now.
Knowing that I still haven't found the right colors
The right mix of red, green or blue to solve my problems
I cannot call this a masterpiece...

My life is still a canvas
But it's not colorless anymore...
Lucas Keith May 2013
V1
I see you yet again, tattooed and a particular shade of grey.
I know it's been quite a while since a smile painted your face.
Full of pain and aches that liquor, lust, and drugs could never touch.
Hiding behind Violet dreams that keep you down and paradise lost.
Blank Face
Blank Canvas
Fade Away
Blend the Pain

C1
Curse, spit, and reel away from this crude reality.
Bare teeth in still-frame rictus, cast Iron apart and
Placing all your hope and fear on a faded Canvas.
Washed out color, glowing blue, disparate Loner Avant-Garde.
On your ***,
Giving in,
Can't get past this
Hell you're in.

V2
You look through me yet again, a single pane window view.
Words pour from my lips, pale, extraneous golden hue.
Brushed steel buckles, a tell-tale drip, and painful medical light.
The glint and gleam, your scalpel, brush strokes and red design.
My Chest
Your Canvas
Cut Away
Numb the Pain

C2
Slip underneath my skin, scar and crack and
Break my ribs to wrap your hands around my heart.
Reaching for your brush and dip it in my blood.
Splash away at the walls like some kind of surrogate, Donor, Avant-Garde.
On my back,
Giving in,
Can't get past this
Hell I'm in

Amidst the silence, shallow breath and fading.

Imperfections give character.
    Perfection, a fruitless pursuit.
       Leaves you lost and blind,
          And I know you're just trying to get by.
             Brush on...

Brkdn
Breathe,  Rapid in and out.
  I took the red and the blue.
    So did you.
  Awake and restless
    In between ultraviolet view.
      What is real and what is not?
      What is real and what is not?
      What is real and what is not?

Brush on by,
Brush on by,
Brush on by,
Brush on by.

C3
Curse, spit, and reel away from this crude reality.
Bare teeth in still-frame rictus, cast Iron apart and
Placing all your hope and fear on a faded Canvas.
Washed out color, glowing blue, disparate Loner Avant-Garde.

For Fay.
Lyrics from a song I wrote for my solo project, 'The Left and the Right'.  For Fay.
L E Dow Sep 2010
A girl and a boy pick their way across the snow-wrecked parking lot, holding hands even if they have to stretch to reach. She’s laughing, an arm out slightly for balance, like a gymnast. They come closer together as they reach a spot that is snow free, brushing arms, then the inevitable happens. The boy steps in the cold snow slush; trying to pretend his canvas shoes aren’t soaked through. The girl laughs, covering her mouth; hiding her amusement at his misfortune. Their mouths move through quick conversation, the words inaudible. They don’t really matter though, He’ll get home and peel off his damp socks and remember her yet again. The laugh that escaped her lips before she could control it, the cold hearted canvas that failed to provide adequate protection, and the way he smiled and continued walking, just to hold her hand.
Copyright Dec. 29 2009 Lauren E. Dow
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
I, stand before him
poised in bareness;
his bristles, he dips
upon his palette to
color me, in passion
upon canvas

in artistic eyes;
his smile beckons
and unravels my
composure, eliciting
his brush to paint
hidden sensuality
in demureness

his brush tantalizes;
a flick of his wrist
dabs upon canvas
stroking curve after
curve, as if, caressing
my frame, the look in
his eyes reveals;
charcoal etchings
of his cupidity,
coveting lust

pantomiming
intentions upon his
canvas; his thoughts
flow from fingers to
brush, brush to palette,
palette to canvas; in
his mind's eye hunger
unfolds, as I, in turn
invite him to partake
of his artistic craving
to taste his own art
with each brush stroke
savoring my essence
Amaya K Lilium Feb 2011
Her body is an empty canvas,
and Oh God, how I anticipate
the red streaks my brush will leave
as it carves intricate patterns
on her pale flesh.

Her body is my canvas
and my sick, twisted fantasy -
my inspiration.

Her body is a canvas
and her screams the soundtrack
as I create a masterpiece
under the steely glint
of my art studio.

Her body was a canvas,
now a beautiful work of art
to add to my growing collection

of still life.

— The End —