"fingerpaint" poems
Finger paint my life,
as I painted as a child
Trees now bigger and intricate in style
Do you think that's were we went wrong
To much detail, branches and leaves
Oh Finger paint my life
I could finger paint triangles
Mum knew they were trees?
Aeroplanes had smiles
and way to many wings
Oh finger paint your life
Cats and dogs looked like horses and sheep
But Dad knew what I painted
And all that it ment
So get out the paint and start again
Focus on basic and not over complex
Oh Fingerpaint your life
It isn't the details, the finicky bits
Not how many branches with leaves at their tips
Look to the simple, look deep inside
Then paint with your fingers
A triangle at a time
Fingerpaint your life woo woo oo
Finger paint your life
Mmmhhhhmmm
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
Do you wanna hang out?
We can fingerpaint now.
'Cuz I know that you love the stuff
that reminds you of being young.
Witnessing the sunset (the new day will await us)
We can use our thumbprints (all over the plain walls)
And we can bend our knuckles (paired up to shape hearts)
We won't always be amateurs (we can fingerpaint now)
We're never growing older, there's nothing anyone can do.
Your hand may be in mine, your soul deep in mine too.
Do you wanna hang out? We can fingerpaint now.
'Cuz I know you love the things that make you feel young again.
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 11:03 PM UTC
You have always dreamed of aviation,
cellophane wings glued to your heartstrings--
my marionette lover of hopes hanging high
enough to abolish the air from heavy lungs.
I watch your cavern chest rise but never fall,
tsunami tides engraved permanently airborne,
intertwining hands with time as suspension
silences destruction.
Time does not exist here--only periwinkle
veins illuminated by morning light,
wispy eyelashes beginning their ascension.
You are all light, and altitude, and grace.
I am grounded, tethered to comfort, but
the curvature of your spine breathes sanctuary.
Your shoulders-- broad, significant--
as if to fingerpaint the alpines you will ascend
once the wrath of gravity is conquered.
When your parachute soul finally gathers
enough strength to pilot the destined flight,
I hope you remember to save
a window seat for my heart.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
Just take it easy
Let your heart beat freely
Slow down
Breathe deeply
And dance the sounds
Of peace
Forge a gentleness
Over the stress
Callused onto your mind
Run your fingers through your hair
And smile as you stare
Into the eyes of ecstasy
Cast a shadow over your
Insecurities
And let euphoria caress
Your weary soul
Embrace the music
Of joyful energy
And soak in the layers
Of awe
Happiness comes
In the color you choose
And the world
Is your pallet
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
My gut reaction remains the same
shade of grey I remember finger painting yesterday.
The smears cloak my fingerprints
like manuscripts of the negative.
Sharp enough to break through the holiest of sentiments.
It's night two in the dark alone when I call on the ghosts.
Exercise the demons so I may leave the couch at once and turn the lamp on.
Warm bodies approach- blurred yet familiar- radiating only eyes.
Dull and full of assumptions.
I can't respond.
I reach out and watch as effort manifests as motionless limbs yet again.
Now, my eyes neither open nor closed, identify nothing.
My hands, palms dripping a simple shade of gloom I've come to embrace, greet my brow.
Grey sweat covers this grey reflection and these paintbrush arms I own just want to get up and live.
In color again.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
If it would make you happy,
I'd fingerpaint the skies,
With every single reason,
Why I'll love you all my life.
And if I were a princess,
I'd abdicate my throne,
If it would make you happy,
And, with you, I'd build our home.
Or if you needed silence,
I'd sit and hold your hand,
If it would make you happy,
I'd never ask, just understand.
And if I were the reason,
You always had to cry,
If it would make you happy,
... I'd even say goodbye.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
i wish i could coat my hand in paint
and leave the print of it on every wall
in London.
then there wouldn't be a place you could go
or a wall you could lean on
without
holding
my
hand.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
Rusting in the shade of sycamore trees, fields of
puzzlegrass
Naked in pools of water, naked on the rocks in
the sun
Sweat melting down into puddles of ice, blown back
& forth
Erasing lines on the page, crumpling up fingerpaint
pictures
Your beautiful handwriting on my back, ink under our
fingernails
Quiet little lines in my notepad, saved for you
alone
Reflections of sleepless nights with your charms
on the nightstand
Left carelessly in the morning, lovingly left
behind
I read those pages, & with a sigh, rip them to
pieces
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
My gut reaction remains the same
shade of grey I remember finger painting yesterday.
The smears cloak my fingerprints
like manuscripts of the negative.
Sharp enough to break through the holiest of sentiments.
It's night two in the dark alone when I call on the ghosts.
Exercise the demons so I may leave the couch at once and turn the lamp on.
Warm bodies approach- blurred yet familiar- radiating only eyes.
Dull and full of assumptions.
I can't respond.
I reach out and watch as effort manifests as motionless limbs again.
Now, my eyes neither open nor closed, identify nothing.
My hands, palms dripping a simple shade of gloom I've come to embrace, greet my brow.
Grey sweat covers this grey reflection and these paintbrush arms I own just want to get up and live.
In color again.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
she hung onto every syllable to float on his wintery breath
as he exhaled raspy whispers into the nape of her neck
and she felt a fluctuating heat as he stole the glimmer of hope from her eyes and dimmed it to instead shine 'emergency exit'
when she realised his wandering touch was not gently caressing but infact longing to fingerpaint with her emotions
but the patterns he painted so fondly soon turned to a collection of harsh bruises
and her tears weren't enough to extinguish his smothering flame
and her pleas weren't enough to break through the chains she felt crushing her in his embrace
he left her broken like the soft spoken promises he crafted
her eyes dull and empty like the indentations of his fingernails which still lingered on her skin
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
everyone has a story and mine is painted
the color of the oceans on the bermuda coastline.
it’s so beautiful/sad/broken/much like art.
my skin sometimes shimmers like that lake by your
house in florida, the lake that knows how to dance
in the moonlight like we did that night when you
you put an arm over my shoulders and we swayed
like lovers to a song others have kissed so passionately to.
it’s funny. i saw you and i saw your story.
i saw it painted in sunsets,
and sun showers,
and tears in the rain.
you had a story with the colors of fresh bruises, and it intermingled with mine.
what if i let my soul spill out onto a canvas again?
would we be able to pretend
like this love never had to end
and could we blend our colors together
like the watercolor paints we’re made of
and transcend
above the pain and
the darkness
that envelops us
and our story?
what does it mean to have a story?
i wonder this, as i instinctively tell ours
and hope that i left some fingerpaint
on your heart.
i hope
you can set me apart from anyone you have ever loved.
i still love
you in color although my world's gone grey
even though i have to keep reminding myself that
your voice sounds like a violet galaxy
because it’s got the kind of stars i may never get to see
again.
once again i am left to watch a lover on the sidelines
and it’s like my
heart is forever breaking in the night time
and the daytime.
all the blasted time.
i’m crying on my knees
praying to a god i never used to believe
in but only a higher power could cause this bleeding
of love that i was seeking.
and now i understand the meaning in
be careful what you wish for.
and i am unsure
of what i miss more.
the purple streak in your hair,
the look in your eyes,
the embraces,
the kisses,
the glow in the dark,
the float above the ground,
the couldn’t care less,
the sounds,
of your voice,
your laugh,
your heartbeat,
the way you’d effect my heartbeat…
i had stars in my eyes, babe,
but the stars bleed
and i hardly see
anything but what we
used to be.
we used to be everything in every galaxy
and me?
i used to be,
i used to be,
i used to be free.
can’t you see it’s killing
me, turning my colors grey?
can’t you just
wouldn’t you just
please just
stay.
stay a moment while i find the right words to paint.
the right words to say.
words the color of love/fear/the bay/promise.
because i love you like a promise
soft, pale blue, and the skyline,
ever present, never evanescent and true.
i want to continue this story,
because we were so lovely
and we had so much more
in store.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
breathing techniques cannot salvage my mentality
dry - cold - gales whisking shards of icicles
jet stream frozen oxygen into my pink lungs
and as nature’s razors draw red blood
my capacity for speaking matches the bleeding
of a headspace drowning in black ink
-
The quills of my fingertips have been continuously dipped
Into the reservoir of dye crested by the hole in my head
-
a yellow sun rises anew day to cast light on these visions
a red rose withers on concrete of unwalked opportunity
a orange three-pronged leaf exists in this dissension
ambition will either
flourish to match a perpetuating green
or
decompose to return compost the dirt of earth
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
I could never paint with a steady hand,
creating a piece bright enough to light a dark city was like tying shoes without laces
I briefly remember my first grade year.
My heart, beating blood red as roses, told me to bloom as far as the sky could reach.
In art class, I’d scribble some old beaten down crayons across printer paper
Hoping to create sunshine from nothing but sticks of wax
It felt like only yesterday my friends and I didn’t know
our fingers from our thumbs, or our neighbors from our critics.
We were too oblivious to understand that it was impossible to perform
a concert to a crowd facing backwards.
Too frozen in a field full of snow,
to realize that our creativity would soon be abolished by the opinions of society.
Society, a word I didn’t hear until around sixth grade
I quit drawing flowers because the heart that once told me to bloom
warned me that my petals would soon be picked apart by the people standing around me.
Crayola boxes, once filled with spirit and embodiment, somehow lost their color.
Playing with bubbles in the backyard until the sunset had turned into endless nights
In the kitchen studying textbooks until my mind could no longer function
My luminous peace of mind now dulled by what they call “reality”
Yesterday, I threw all of my pennies in a wishing well.
My knees now bruised from entreating the world to hold their prisms up to the sun,
hoping they’d discover the hidden hues that Imagination may transfuse,
The philosophy, of one’s youth.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
I hate pottering around inside my mind
With no reason or rhyme, like I'm retired-
Poking through cobwebbed corners,
Pulling at age-old tablecloths, considering
A garden party for me and my little lost smile
There in the half-wild,
With the sun like messy oil I'll have to wash
Out of my hair and clothing when I'm done.
I hate playing docile card games alone,
Laying out plans like pictures I'll never colour in-
My doughy brain pokes stimulus off the shelf
And traps itself in kindergarten daydreams;
I fingerpaint endlessly,
Defining the world through crayon senses,
Crushing, mushing cookies and shaking
Clumsy maraca beats.
If only I could lie down in soft rustic flesh
Snatching handfuls of it to conceal my skin
Finally, finally filling myself in
Buried alive for good
And be expelled, again, into blazing harshness
Choking on the earth that forms my body
Crying, crying for hope and fresh presence
Coming to life for good.
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 3:04 PM UTC