"michelangelo" poems
Admire the proportions, the features, the confidence.
These are supposed to define the ideal male.
These things have nothing to with my perception of ideal.
When I put myself in that position
I call myself Michelangelo, David in front of me.
I admire his proportions, his features, his confidence.
I throw myself so far into the fantasy, reality becomes a fog.
Enamored by him, his features, our closeness.
I am entranced by him, we transcend into the unknown.
I return to reality, and realize that I've gone too far.
I can't take back the words I've said,
or the time I've spent staring into his eyes.
But I'm no Michelangelo and he is not David.
My inspiration is much closer to my heart.
The love in my heart.
The passion beneath the gaze.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
I was thinking of a son.
The womb is not a clock
nor a bell tolling,
but in the eleventh month of its life
I feel the November
of the body as well as of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday
and as always the earth is done with its harvest.
This time I hunt for death,
the night I lean toward,
the night I want.
Well then--
It was in the womb all along.
I was thinking of a son ...
You! The never acquired,
the never seeded or unfastened,
you of the genitals I feared,
the stalk and the puppy's breath.
Will I give you my eyes or his?
Will you be the David or the Susan?
(Those two names I picked and listened for.)
Can you be the man your fathers are--
the leg muscles from Michelangelo,
hands from Yugoslavia
somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,
somewhere the survivor bulging with life--
and could it still be possible,
all this with Susan's eyes?
All this without you--
two days gone in blood.
I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn't bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What's wrong with the name day?
It's only an angel of the sun.
Woman,
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider--
die!
My death from the wrists,
two name tags,
blood worn like a corsage
to bloom
one on the left and one on the right--
It's a warm room,
the place of the blood.
Leave the door open on its hinges!
Two days for your death
and two days until mine.
Love! That red disease--
year after year, David, you would make me wild!
David! Susan! David! David!
full and disheveled, hissing into the night,
never growing old,
waiting always for you on the porch ...
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
I would have possessed you before all women,
calling your name,
calling you mine.
27.1k
SEASHELLS
Seashells
Humble shells of the sea
Each seems to be still alive and staring at me
In its matchless symmetry-
Like the wondrous beauty of a painting
A tender poem written with poignancy
Not of life’s sorrows but joys
For celebration –each is like a happy Mozartian symphony
Such perfection in a tiny manifestation
Natura in minimis maxima-
The envy of Michelangelo or Da Vinci
Seashells—nature’s glorious gifts by far.
Seashells
Always remind me of happy childhood days
Lucky finds—spotted often in half -buried golden sand
Proudly displayed in a jar---I won every classmate’s praise.
Seashells
Tell of the sea’s unknown stories
Events that had stretched through millions of centuries
When you spot one on the shore, readily
Pick it up as a treasure----contemplate upon its profound mystery.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
*Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This becomes more evident as we grow older. What we once may have thought was a work of art, now because of age has fallen apart. When we started out we might have looked like a Michelangelo, but in the end I fear that we shall all become Picasso's.
Written by James M Vines*
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
I've been painted pink the instant the doctors
Wiped me of red.
I looked like the boys I knew - our differences a
Color palette provided by Mommy and Daddy.
I was their little girl, their princess who wished
Her hair would stop growing,
Lest she be locked in a stone tower.
I didn't mind the dress so much then,
Not when it was the only difference between me
And them.
Magic mirror before me, is wrong all I'll ever be?
I shut my eyes, unable to stand my body bare.
My knight, your skin simply is not right.
I've read the mirror never lies.
Mommy and Daddy are yelling
About my butch haircut.
Our little girl the **** they say.
I did it myself.
Mommy still buys me dresses,
Daddy tells her to spend the money on
Therapy instead.
Daddy asks about boyfriends,
Mommy tells him I don't have any because I
Hide my *******
I tell them I'm all wrong.
They agree.
We're talking about two different things.
I don't change for gym anymore.
The girls are secretly relieved I won't be there
To cast a wandering eye in their soft bodies.
I'm relieved I won't be in the wrong locker room.
Mommy and Daddy don't like me
Telling them who I am.
I've finally found my way out of the tower and
The king and queen are upset because their
Princess never made it home, just the knight.
My little girl, Mommy cries.
I follow the point of Daddy's finger to the door
Until I'm on a bus bound for somewhere else.
I shift from Pangea into separate pieces.
Finally I have space to breathe.
Needles, knives, pills bend my body to my will -
It took Michelangelo three years to build David.
Mommy and Daddy believe me to be
A delivery man. They are expecting to sign off
On a television set, yet when they see me
Idle in the doorframe there is a hesitance, a hope.
But most of all there is silence.
Mommy cannot speak, her hand curls like a gasp
Around her mouth.
Daddy begins to cry, his eyes pale and blue.
I am hugged.
They don't say sorry, but I hear then whisper.
My little boy, they say. My little boy.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
The naked is not dangerous.
Lust filling the eyes of young.
Full bodied stretching
yearning for what is to ***
or merely done
For the sake of comfort.
Not a foreign folly
But a jolly adventure
letting the wind and water
wash away the stress of the days.
Naked as the snakes
or the furless babies
breastfeeding at their mother’s breast.
**** and curved.
Fat or muscled.
Not dangerous, but beautiful
like Michelangelo’s David.
The **** does not destroy
neither does the ******
****** does not diminish our morality.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
So it has come to this
insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,
the clock tolling its engine
like a frog following
a sundial yet having an electric
seizure at the quarter hour.
The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
that warm brown mama.
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.
The bird wants to be dropped
from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.
He wants to light a kitchen match
and immolate himself.
He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
and dome out painted on a ceiling.
He wants to pierce the hornet's nest
and come out with a long godhead.
He wants to take bread and wine
and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.
He wants to be pressed out like a key
so he can unlock the Magi.
He wants to take leave among strangers
passing out bits of his heart like hors d'oeuvres.
He wants to die changing his clothes
and bolt for the sun like a diamond.
He wants, I want.
Dear God, wouldn't it be
good enough to just drink cocoa?
I must get a new bird
and a new immortality box.
There is folly enough inside this one.
5.6k
Said The Raven
To The Raven
Which Raven are you?
I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
And I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Edgar Allan Poe.
Apparently there's a rave on -
Shall we go?
Yes - let us go then you and I
As the evening is spread out
Against the sky.
But not like a patient
Etherised upon a table.
Let us like Thunderbirds
Not gentle go into this dark night.
So dressed in sable
White gloves
And whistles
They went on their way -
Not looking forward
To conversations about
Michelangelo at all.
For as we all know
Old age should rave and burn
At close of day.
And not just fizzle out.
More big shout...........................................
And rave until you fall.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
a lover by day
and an artist by night
the epitome of perfection
let me paint you like you are
the heavenly piece of art you are
let the world see you through my eyes
the likes of an angel of love
sculpted by michelangelo
blessed by venus herself
brushstrokes simply cannot do you justice
50mm lens still cannot show the world the truth
cold clay cannot compare to eucalyptus eyes
forget these superficial takes
let's make art, my love
let's make love
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
Like a lotus emerging
Unsullied
From the mud,
So have you appeared,
In this world,
Yet not of it.
I consider myself
Most blessed of all men
For having glimpsed upon your face.
Not even Michelangelo,
With all his magnificent frescoes,
Could have conceived of such beauty.
The most flowery prose of Marquez wilts,
Inadequate to fully describe your radiance.
The supple, rich compositions of Mozart
Are a rancorous cacophony
Compared to the melody of your voice.
Your entire being is a testament
To the masterful craftsmanship of our Lord.
I may circumnavigate this world
Sample the most luscious of delicacies
Climb the lofty peak of Everest
Swim the English Channel
Trek the Ural Mountains
Watch the Caribbean sunset
Walk the entirety of the Great Wall
But none of these
shall hope to compare with
the blissful moment
When my eyes fell upon you.
It was truly a day of days,
One which no other can rival.
You stood out
A swan
Regal in its repose
Amongst
Ducks
Babbling away
In their ignominy.
I have found my muse --
Alas! --
But for a moment.
Yet I shall not rage.
Neither shall I weep.
Just because
He got to you first.
Just because
He is
Perhaps
More worthy
Of you.
I shall not fly
Into a maelstrom of emotion
Sulk with resentment
And seethe with envy
Just for losing
Something
Someone
I never even had.
Just because
She will never be mine.
I shall not have
To lower and abandon myself
To the maddening clutches
Of grief
To wantonly fling
My artless soul
At the burning altar
Of undignified melancholy.
For it is foolish.
Yet I cannot help
But do exactly this.
Act like the boy,
The child,
That I am.
For what else am I?
I am not a man
Like him
After all.
Not adequate
For anything
Resembling a soulmate
For anyone
Like her.
I can never hold you
In my arms
Never gaze
Into your eyes
My ears can never hear you
Whisper
Sweet nothings.
And
My lips shall never
Meet yours.
So what
Else
Can I do
But mourn?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
And for the first time
Someone made me feel as beautiful
As chiseled Renaissance marble
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and ******* lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world?
Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day.
I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
lines,
the curves of your neck, your eyelashes that flutter.
color,
the brown in your eyes, the barely there pink of your chapped lips.
texture,
the bumps on your cheeks, the smoothness of your hands.
space,
the width of your shoulders, the space between your eyebrows.
shape,
the way your shadow looks as the spotlight's on you.
van gogh, da vinci, munch, and michelangelo,
they'd all be ashamed,
for they could never make art in the form of you.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
Sarin –
An organic molecule
Used for inorganic purposes
Showering civilians
Effectively icing their insides
Contorting the human form into forced frozen sculptures
Acting as if torture was an art of the highest caliber
An acquired taste reserved for society’s finest
And this was the Michelangelo masterpiece.
Atropine –
The organic antidote,
Shoot up the stimulant to hurdle your paralysis,
Relax the respiratory muscles caught in your throat,
Your eyes team with tears because you’re allowed to melt,
Your eyes team with tears out of profound shock,
Your eyes team with tears because humans forgot humanity.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Seldom doth man stop and stare
At the caste iron manhole cover there,
Seldom doth he analyze
The majesty, which beneath it lies.
The pipe work systems vast and long
Dark catacombs so precise and strong,
Buried deep beneath our feet
Extending forth from street to street,
Out across the breadth of town
Those secret fluids trickle down.
Laser levels carve the pathway
Through the walls of solid stone,
Shovels scrape and dig with effort
Forging hard trajectories home.
Digging, digging metal mountains
Sweat cascades upon the brow,
We lay the pipes in straight formation
Precision's satisfaction now.
An Artisan's great work is hidden
Lost beneath the earth's grey stone,
Appreciation camouflaged in that,
The cast iron manhole stands alone.
Magnificence unrealized
For deep beneath your feet,
A subterranean Michelangelo's
Sisteen Chapel, lays discreet.
Unsuspected rivers
Flowing darkly to the sea
In caverns of unwanted waste
Quite unbeknown to thee.
Vaulting brickwork chambers
Which are ancient works of art,
Carry oceans of excretement
Far from where their journey's start.
With thunder's crash and lightning flash
And torrents of cold rain,
The road's awash and gutters flow
Through roadside grates to drain.
Gushing torrents cascade down
In waves of flowing might
To the storm water system
Which promptly swallows it from sight.
Magic, you say ?
Nay, nay I say unto you
That the drain layers artistry
Is unappreciated, that's true !
That the Herculean effort wrought
In winning his great fights
Is largely lost to all and sundry
Who avoid construction sites.
They miss the planning and the layout
And meticulousness too
And the rubber seals which stop the leaks
Which really bother you.
The massive holes and danger
Of being buried in collapse
And the wondrous satisfaction
Of achieving downhill flows... Perhaps!
Marshalg
Apprentice drain layer
MHX Beachcroft site and Eastport
19 September 2009
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
Tingly under the daisies;
Glassy-eyed, glazed, greasy;
Shaking, shivering, shuddering,
Wishing, wandering, whimpering,
Westernizing—
Romanizing—
Constitutionalizing—
Institutionalizing—
Perpetually searching
And dying
And living,
Watching Death survive
And scythe the frolickers,
The prancers,
The rompers,
The merrymakers.
A rose clamped between his
Grinning teeth glistens brightly,
And he dances so joyously.
“Yes!” say the naysayers,
Confused are the soothsayers,
Lost are the cartographers.
Oh, Utopia!
The monks are extravagant;
The meditations are a farce!
The preachers are beggars
And swindlers and chargers,
And Machiavelli fulfills his wishes!
Babies are stillborn, stabbed, and
Ritualistically sacrificed,
And their blood is spilled, drunk,
Slathered over the ***** man.
The evangelists scream and lie:
“You are all predestined to die!”
Oh, hail Utopia!
Wedded are the girls to the girls;
Wedded are the boys to the boys;
Wedded is Death to Death,
Life to Life,
And Life to Death.
Wedded are the living to the existent.
And the milking babes are slaughtered
Ceremoniously,
Surreptitiously,
Ostentatiously.
Oh, hail great Utopia!
We are all dead and unintelligent:
Laugh, laugh, Einstein, at your
Stupidity.
Laugh, laugh, Temple Grandin at
Your retardation.
Laugh, laugh, laugh!
Look at the sluggard, thou ant;
Look at the boy, sobbing wolf;
Aesop was drunk,
Aristotle was delusional,
Michelangelo was blind,
Beethoven could hear,
Poe was sane.
And I can't read.
They ramble,
I watch.
They sleep,
I watch.
They dream,
I watch.
They sleep-talk,
I watch.
They scream,
I watch.
They choke,
I watch.
They suffocate,
I watch.
Stone-faced, I stare;
Raspingly, I breathe;
Uncontrollably, I twitch;
Inwardly, I rage.
I hope you die, I hope you die.
I hope you bleed, I hope you die.
I want you begging and crying,
I want you blubbering at my feet,
I want you gnashing at my ankles,
I want you writhing in pain,
I want your arm twisted off,
Cracking with the snapping sinews, I want your beating heart in my hands, I want your genitals uprooted and stuffed in your throat, I want your stomach so I can eat the still-digesting food, I want your shrunken head and I want to force my thumbs into your unblinking eyes and I want to tear your face in two and I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
Why, you must be a man made of marble—
What else could have sculpted a face so beautiful
And a form so lithe, yet untouchable?
Jan 16, 2024
Jan 16, 2024 at 11:59 PM UTC
Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the **** Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
by,
FRANK O'HARA
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your flawless makeup
Instead I think of your eyes, the window to your soul.
I describe the love that flows through soft hazel gaze that only a mother can produce
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your perfectly done hair
Instead I see you reading a novel on a hot summer day,
As if it were your true reality in that moment.
I see the power that literature holds
I describe your mesmerizing voice repeating the lines of Eloise in Paris to me,
I mention the soothing way in which you read the Velveteen Rabbit,
And I credit you for making me fall in love with words and the way they can make people feel.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your schooling history
Instead I picture you and I see a symphony around your soul that courses cannot teach
I see Mozart's Sonata No.11 and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I see Monet’s Water Lilies, Veronese's Wedding at Cana and Michelangelo’s David
I describe the joy in your eyes when we saw the Sistine Chapel and the Champs-Élysées
I describe the vast knowledge and art that makes up your personal mosaic.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your professional accomplishments.
Instead I mention your ability to hold someone and make them feel loved
I picture the times you embraced me while I silently sobbed over circumstances that you tried to protect me from.
I picture the words that you gave me at just the right times
I see the comfortable silence you provided when I couldn't bear to hear words through the pain.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your clothing or the way you dress
Instead I mention the way you clothe yourself in humility before God
I see the verses that you have sown into my heart since I was young
I speak of the way you clothe yourself with the armor of God
I remember the scriptures that you so carefully knitted on my heart
When I describe you to a stranger,
I describe you as
A woman after God’s own heart.
A woman who understands that beauty is vain but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,
A woman who teaches wisdom and kindness and serves with joy,
A mother who clothes herself in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future,
A mother who encapsulates the love of Christ here on Earth.
I describe you as everything that I hope to become.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 12:42 AM UTC
The seed had been planted long ago. The words had been prophesied to give life.
I'm making deliveries, although I'm not a midwife.
These words are a key to unlock the invisible bars for those who have lost their voice......due to a bad choice.
He observed her movements, like a lion that stalks its prey.
She found him to be quite handsome when he spoke to her that day.
She had been praying the her loneliness would soon come to an end. The third wheel activities needed to come to an end.
He wasn't a big time star....just a regular dude. His mother instilled manners ....so he made it a point not to be rude......
He was well aware of the female's who thought that men only wanted to see them ****
Although, he had to admit there was some truth to this myth. There was something about this woman ......that had him in awe.
She was a Michelangelo type woman.....rare and precious. He didn't have any crafty lines....so he didn't know how to catch this.
Opportunity that he knew would only come once. He had read about the Proverbs 31 woman and wondered if she could be.
The addition to eventually make three.
How did he jump so far along in his thoughts?
Just married a woman and had a family......
All this from watching a beautiful woman walk down the street.
Hopefully....one day he will muster up the courage eventually to speak.
The seed has been planted.....
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
I look at her and
I close my eyes,
And oh where my imagination,
Send my eager mind,
The wiles versus my wills,
oh those hills they bind,
Men like me, like demons versus the Lion,
Exorcized, exorcized,
Yeah, but I am Legion,
if they beat me one time,
Oh, next time, time,
They'll be mine.
And those mountains of lust,
That once seemed unclaimable,
Unclimbable like Everest before
Edmund Hillary, like the Sistine Chapel,
Before Michelangelo, oh I will persist,
I will pursue, with the littlest smile,
And the darkest hue,
Where after many days fight,
Suddenly. Then, in the night,
when alas my victory is won!
My prize I will take,
And her pleasure I will reign.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Oh Darling, look at what you've done
Believed the tall tails of boys instead of the female at your feet
But why would you when you have an ego that towers over the David?
And you thought it was silly that I gifted you the name Michelangelo
I couldn't have picked more right
You though have forgotten that I am a master piece of my own creation, sculpted by none other but my own hands and never appreciated by yours
And my sweet Michelangelo, if you think to call yourself my muse then you are nothing more than a fool
For everything I have been through has led to my life's legacy
My family chiselled out the shape
My childhood chipped away at the detail
And men like you did nothing more than carve in the finishing touches
I am a beauty in my own right
And as always too much for some to handle, and never fully understood by the rest
But still she will live on through the ages
So the next time darling that you fall confused, I implore you to simply ask the master herself
And you would come to realize that this artist was far too focused on creating to let anyone interfere with her work
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC
I sit, perched upon this star -
Watching the world change; evolve,
Sculpted in time, as if by the hands of Michelangelo,
Morphing this vacant, plain stone - into a beautifully crafted masterpiece.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
Great Michelangelo, with age grown bleak
And uttermost labours, having once o’ersaid
All grievous memories on his long life shed,
This worst regret to one true heart could speak:—
That when, with sorrowing love and reverence meek,
He stooped o’er sweet Colonna’s dying bed,
His Muse and dominant Lady, spirit-wed,
Her hand he kissed, but not her brow or cheek.
O Buonarruoti,—good at Art’s fire-wheels
To urge her chariot!—even thus the Soul,
Touching at length some sorely-chastened goal,
Earns oftenest but a little: her appeals
Were deep and mute,—lowly her claim. Let be:
What holds for her Death’s garner? And for thee?
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