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V Mar 2017
Its different when you're with me.
Because all I paint is black and gray
Don't you agree?

Your smiles are filled with glee,
Like a finished canvas I daresay.
Its different when you're with me.

I make things a little blurry
Like an old painting that starts to decay.
Don't you agree?

When you're with them, I am filled with envy.
So colorful, so faraway.
Its different when you're with me.

I am a bit too gloomy
Maybe I should stay away
Don't you agree?

Your life is already a beautiful harmony
I'll just be in the way.
Its different when you're with me.
Don't you agree?
Where do I begin?
What color?

Celebrating air
With sincere smile
Blue, Green, Red
In your favor
Or, the Silver hue?

Paint You
The delighted colors
Well being senses
With no excuse
Genre: Romantic
Theme: Paint you, Blue || Paint you, Red || Paint you, Green || Paint you, all colors of joy
Lon Witter Aug 2018
I often dream about the life
in colors shining and dazzling
purple, pink, yellow and lime
and with lights such blinding

life changing like the seassons
but keeping the same warmth
life is a such preacious thing
like the flowers in garden you love

But I'm going to wake up in the end
and will return to my colorless life
full with misery and disappoinments
and try to live to reach the next night
just to see the life in my dream's light.
japheth Sep 2018
i loved to paint using your colour.

i’d go day and night, from one canvas to another, using different shades of you to paint all kinds of pictures.

i never lost any ideas.
i never had to find inspiration.
it all just comes to me whenever i look at you.

one day, i woke up colour blind. and unfortunately, it’s in your colour.

all the paintings, all the sketches, all the canvasses that were of your colour, plastered, hanged, and taped all over my walls doesn’t make sense anymore.

it was all grey. all dull. a colour i know existed but never really tried using before.

i tried searching for your colours in the things you’ve touched. the words you’ve said. i searched everywhere but whenever i do think your colour will come back, my eyes revert to reality.

now you’re just a memory.

your colour will only exist inside my mind.

those shades i loved. the pigments i crave to achieve every time i ****** my brush. it’s all in my head now.

it’s been years now. you’re colour isn’t as bright as i thought my memory would remind me of.

i paint with a different colour now.

actually, i paint with all the colours now except yours.

all those nights i spent painting, it’s with every colour i come across but yours.

now my wall’s full of colour again. all from different parts of me. colours i never knew existed.

now,

i’m happy. i’m content.

i’m colourful.
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
their trench members filling packs with canister and cane
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from a glorified perch
the elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly in a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and pierced broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
is a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
When poets ****
Does it make a fantastical sound
With each plop that they drop is there something profound
Do they get it done quickly with steadfast persistence
Or do they sit there for hours pondering their existence

When poets ****
Is each movement perfected
Or do they just sit and bear down till the poo is ejected
Do they search for deep meaning upon the bowl's murky waters
Or imagine it filled with colorful fishes and otters

When poets ****
Do they wipe as the non-poets do
Or do they defy the norm (side to side?) in the loo
Does it make them depressed, feel down in the pits
Or are most poets joyously taking their sh*ts

When poets ****
Is it melodramatic
Each push pause or squeak intentionally emphatic
Please forgive my crassness (I'm just stuck in a loop)
As I can't help but wonder how poets go ****
Again, sorry. Sometimes, they just write themselves and don't listen to us
King Panda Apr 2017
Smell of lilacs bloom
to no end—a nebulous glow of
purple, perfect, and unperturbed—your
poem of lilies with caution tape
snug in my backpack—
your pollen hundreds of miles
away—a firebrick orange
sung again and again. A cotton
blow unlike anything colorful
—a white puff of dandruff before
the rain—a bouquet for
your spring stitched
stem by stem.
Danneli Aug 2018
"Come hear!" they cry thru the shadowed veil
"Don't you hear the blackbirds song?
Do not weep for the grievings of her heart
For it is you that is dead and gone..."

"It's me indeed!" cried the poor wand'rer
"For behold I meet death at last
My heart beats fast like the fallen bird's wings
Filled with sorrows for my lonesome past..."

"No, No!" cried the blacksmith's wife in vain
"Your heart should not grieve for your colorful days!
I n're leave home and I work till I bleed
I am caged and shall die a *****..."

"Your tunes are absurd to my disciplined ear,"
The businessman spat in the stranger's path
"You can scarce imagine my crimes toward man
I am ****** to **** for my horrid acts..."

"My songs have begun to fade out of key!
My spirit has died," the performer mourned
"I sing alone with another's words
The crowd sees beauty, but it's pain they scorn..."

Now do you hear it? My song that I sing?
Now that you've reveled on a darkness within
Sing no longer for me the tune that I give
For the caged bird that I am, I see all of your sins.
I tried a new style. Sorry, I can't explain it or make it more complicated than it is.
dmperez Dec 2016
delightful colorful
constellating memory warm
starshine in winter

                         /#dmperez
message me for comments, complaints for anything :)

12/6/16 changed starshine of winter TO starshine in winter
Özcan Sh Aug 2018
She was a rose
A unique black rose
Her beauty was in the dark
Not in the light
But her scent
Smelled like
A colorful flower.
Scurry hurry
Shaking hands shaped by worry
tie the knot of plastic
A bubble home for the hard green cup
where brown and white
mixed lay married.

Wash rush
Dainty legs in dark blue denim
hasn't time to be romantic
A worn out sister played by hope
shuts the door panting.

  It clings to a robust tree
  head hidden under rosy pink    
  protective shield
  edged in yellow

  The fireflies

  
Sticky webs of empty lies packaged in boxes of deception by the wizard that doesn't work
sit dead on the small bedside table
like the results they provide.

Boxes and boxes of cozy containers
and cards of capsules
47 I counted them
current and extras
They choke my sight
then I am groped by the smooth blue robes worn by the youthful shepherd
posing aside a grey rock looking yonder
into the distance as insta-natural as possible in a pastel painted picture framed in wood against the wall.
  
  Unstable molecules in tiny airtubes,  
  many, breakdown and explode
  like little landmines
  A bio-luminescent lit ***** assaults a  
  dense night flashing brilliant
  to find a mate
  Six strong neon-green throbbing blinks
  Six slow seconds of unimaginable
  wordless dreamless dark.

  are bright.

  
I turn my head
The whole unsettling mass of reality
is torn apart into vibrant colorful morsels,
then reassembled
as my eyes  
settle
on

Her

"Oh God, if you're here, heal her now
and you'll have me. Show me what those confident tongues so eagerly confess.
Please!"

NOTHING
Another sticky empty square
covered in thick black-strap molasses
slapped to the face of the fool
who likes sweet things.

BUT

What happened to the omni-this, omni-that CEO of God enterprises?
"Go on Death" is what that means
"Go on Death do your job" is what it does

"It's your time.
It's to test your faith.
Gods plan."
All slogans for the man
who believes and dies.
  Culture creates the fool
  Hope keeps the fool
  Belief kills the fool
Thanks for doing what all those boxes
and all the pictures
on all the walls of the world do

FOOL

Her face,
a gaunt kind of skin-to-bone sight
a bad flavor
like a meal with no taste

Her mouth,
*****-lipped, framed by dry
delivers deadly blows to a heaving chest
that says; "Give me air"
yet lungs say no

Anguish,
is ****** from the pit of my cold stomach
then up through the spirit of a warm heart
I plaster the feeling in the shape of water.
My eyes puddle

I weep

It sticks

Love,

Falls

Fluttering as a twinkle
through soft beams of sunlight,
the drop glistens
plops
then dies
on the pink and blue checkered blanket.

All I have to offer are busky palms
to soothe this battered body
before you are torn apart by what
puts things like us together.

I swallow her frame

Her calf - bone

Squeeze and move

Her thigh,
my hand wraps completely
pinching a sausage sized piece of muscle
not big enough to walk
between plump thumb
and meaty middle

Squeeze and move

Her hip bone is angular
It fits flush in my hand
like the hard front peak of a cricket cap
when held above the grid

Squeeze and move

My chunky tentacles massage over
wire-thin barely blue throbless veins
that decorate her meatless paws
and twig-like fingers.

Squeeze and move
  
  It's after midnight
  Thick curds of desperation push
  again, through a splendid backside
  a special toosh
  slogging a dancing night-fever
  to beat the two-to-four,
  a beam as bright as a green day
  cuts through the black pitch of night

  

I hold her hand
A thin filling between two slices of mine
I look at her eyes and turn away

Have you ever been pulled from the center of  your heart, ripped head first through the narrow ***** of your own chest, tossed aside like a skin-sheet onto a concrete glass-covered floor then squashed beneath the majesty of a billion dancing floor-clapping feet attached to a shapeless void shapeshifting as slideshows  between all things gone, here, and still to come, stopping on the body of a small blue boy that sings in ghostly echo;
"Don't turn away from this.
Look till you see me through the eyes of another because this too
will happen to you
Clap clap clap clap!
I'm coming for you.

Trapped in a square tunnel made of brick, walls wide enough for one bus no brakes to speed through, no escape,
I accept what will squash me
I Face it
I Stand before it

I stare at her eyes staring back at me
A deep dagger stare
Two parts steel
meshed
until there is only steel
It melts

I simmer the room in soft whisper;
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
I hold her hand,
patting the top as I warm the bottom
I smile for her, at me
I smile back, as me
  
  A skillful mimic
  Here I come
  I have light and breath
  I see yours
  I come at night
  Not for genes or ***
  I hunt and gut
  Hawking down I come as death

  
The gaps between her labored breaths become bigger and for a second I drift at the sight reappearing on the sandy dunes of an empty dessert space pushed by a dying wind I can barely feel.

A sharp salty tang toils the tip of my tongue and brings me back to her.

Her eyes

They have changed

Open

But

Soul

   less

     Soulless

     Desolate

   Like

That dessert

And that place where


*The Fireflies Lose their Light
Logan Robertson Apr 2017
He stopped at her rose garden to explore
Beckoning rose petals awed of colorful lore
With pillow eyes so soft
He's invited into her loft
She raced fast as he kept banging at her door

LR-4/26/17
Limerick
Kerri May 2015
Always  in the spotlight,
but coddled by the darkness
A bright, colorful flower
that never wanted to bloom
She pulled the sheer, black curtains
over her eyes,
welcoming the night
An arrow shooting into the Midnight moon
swallowed whole by wicked sin
Flirting with the Devil
and soaking in the evil serum
She turned her face away from
the beacon in the night
never to return again
Leaving to the world
just a ghost of a little girl
Elena Dec 2018
Poetry is the string
         looping through and
         weaving out
the needling pain

It knits a beautiful
         patchwork, coated with
         colorful patterns
our fingers trace

threads of our lives
         create designs
a shining::
shimmering::
or dulling
our emotions blend.
jane taylor Jun 2016
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor
this poem is dedicated to fellow poet chris who just passed away
we love you chris!!!
http://poetfreak.com/705083/chris-vaillancourt-rip.html
Lizzy Mar 2014
Tell me all the things I want to hear,
Lie to me so I may rest easy.
I'll tell you you're the only one,
Than laugh about you when you're gone.
I push away your adoration and affection
Just to feel some power over my fickle heart.

Colorful creature, show me how to move
My envy drips from fingertips
When I watch you dance
It makes me laugh.

And you got such a pretty face,
The kind that could make angels cry.
Your eyes keep me up at night,
Thinking about how lovely it would be
If I was the one dancing behind them.
Baby do you think of me as much as I think of you?

The night captures my attention
When the sun forgets to shine.
We must learn to dance in graveyards,
To spin and twirl to the music of our madness.

Insanity so beautiful and easy,
So listen to your voices
And expel all your demons
I haven't been writing much lately. My inspiration is running dry
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