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SILVA VS DIAZ Jan 2015
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Cné Dec 2017
~
O Painter
with thy own eye
                        would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
            and blemishes true

Load thy brush
                      with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
                  bethought, in deep

With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
                  and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
               of deep forest green

O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
       and the indigo moon.

Paint me as i standeth,
       prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might

Paint me in the optimistic
                             silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
                              of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal

O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
                            in a rainy drizzle

Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken

Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
         with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon

O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
                               in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
             of a quite quaint butterfly

Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
                to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.

Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******

Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;

Study mine own dry sorrow
                              in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.

O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print

Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too

~
When I paint, I’m never quite satisfied as I see all my mistakes, blemishes and colors not quite right. I tend to keep painting to try and get it all right. At some point, I arrive with the conclusion, if I keep going I’m going to mess it up. I stand across the room and, it’s then that I’m amazed at what I have created. I like to think that I’m seen in the same way by my creator.
Jonathan Pizarro Sep 2011
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls

Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards

Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain

Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away

Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery

Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend

Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls

Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways

Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face

Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty

A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive

Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Anonymous4070 Jul 2017
Paint me the sky,
the world above.
Paint me a flower,
paint me true love.

Paint me an ocean,
Paint me a tree
Paint me a self portrait,
or just paint me me.

Paint me a valley,
Paint me a field.
Paint me a castle,
Paint me a shield.

Paint me a future,
paint me the past.
Paint just for now,
or paint just to last.

Please paint me a picture,
I don't care what you do!
I  just want to see,
how to world looks to you.
I've always been fascinated by the way people could paint the same thing, but have it end up completely different. I wonder how a few people would paint me...
Why don’t you paint me
Like I am?
Paint me staring out a window, wishing to be free
Where light shines through as happy things

Paint me thinking about life
Thinking about death
Paint me with all the things I suppress

Paint me in a place to keep me warm
Paint me in a beautiful storm

Paint me somewhere safe
Somewhere where I’m not a disgrace
With no more masks on my face

Paint me without my fears
Without any more tears
Paint me without my insecurity’s
Paint me so my scars won’t show.

Paint me with ink on my hands
And fire in my eyes
And tell me, what would you see?

Paint me with passion
Paint me with ease
But most of all paint me as ME.
I wrote this poem as an assignment for my class, but I thought it came out nicely, so here it is.
Jake B Rydell Feb 19
Painted painted painted painted painted
paint paint paint paint paint
It’s hard to describe an overload
When the in comes in and it just won’t go
I stare at a wall, I shake, say no
But I can’t say no when the shutters close
I can’t say no when there’s no more no
And all there is is green and pink and paint
Paint paint paint paint paint
There’s no one thing that makes me go
A tindered flint to ignite my woe
It could be anything: hair, a cat, the snow
But today it was paint
The word alone made me quiver
Shake and tremble like the words of winter
I stared at the wall to shake the feeling
Locked myself down ‘til my senses stopped reeling
And soon I was feeling and seeing, alive
The tidal wave ceased, it didn’t crash but subside
And I was still here, claw marks in my sides
With the smell of the paint just waiting outside.
Quinn Apr 2019
Paint me with crayons
Make me radiate color and beauty from within my soul
Paint me with watercolor
The colors should run like rain

Paint me as you love me
Show me my true nature
Paint me as a martyr with a crown of thorns
Paint me as the sinner placing the crown

Place me in a prison with the key in my mouth
Make the key my mouth
Make me afraid to open the cage
and face what's outside

Paint me as the daffodils in a field
Paint me as the drought that kills them
Paint me as the sun with her radiating beauty
Paint me as the jealous clouds that hide her face

Paint me as a savior
Paint me as damnation
Please artist
Just paint me as I am.
Leah Apr 2016
My art teacher used to say.
“Don’t add the black paint until you’re ready for a finished product”
and I never listened.
So I painted with my black paint
a little too soon,
a little too much,
a little too dark,
a little too passionate,
a little too addicted,
to the night,
I always enjoyed the starry sky.
My art teacher used to say
“Keit, I know that you love her, I see it, you two are my favorite couple”
and I never listened.
So I broke her heart at night
as she gripped her chest
while I did,
as she hid her heart
while I bit,
as she held her tongue
while I kissed,
as she ran from me,
while I chased.
I always enjoyed the lustful parts,
but I miss the gentle parts more.
My art teacher used to say.
“black is dominance,
black is overwhelming,
and black is torture,
but black must be controlled”
but I never listened.
Because it never made much sense, I didn’t make much sense of anything except for her. I tried to make sense out of a human being, my human being. A lover, my lover, and you know what the trust it all about?
People don’t make sense.
Love has no sense of direction.
People are chaotic.
Love is chaos.
People are nature’s kiss,
Love, the lips.
People are timeless.
Love is timed.
She was natural.
I was the ******* disaster.
There is a quote out there that goes,
and you’ll know why people are named after storms, why hurricanes are named after girls and you know what?
She wasn’t any of those things,
I was.
I was the earthquake that
shook her buildings down
and they crashed into her heart;
that explains the cracks.
I was the wildfire that
burnt through her magical forest
and the rabbit lost more time;
that explains Alice in wonderland.
I was the calm eye of the storm that
had one sweet angle and 20 more reasons to **** her over;
my insides said I love you,
but my outsides and I hate you
that explains the obsession,
this hopeless romantic poetry *******.
I was a flood,
and her eyes the land,
her eyes the gates,
her eyes the drowned city.
I was the big bang,
and her soul the many universes
within universes, the many stars
followed by comet showers,
the wishing stars that never came true,
the first time the moon met the sun,
love at first sight, forever separated,
the moon crashing into the sun,
night and dat never being one
until dawn came and twilight clouds
rained her name and my name
was shot across the enos of lightyears
and no one hears my scream in space
except for her an she does care,
but these type of blackholes
**** up everything!
They destroy everything,
a still painting dripping with black paint and I wanted to lover her
and all of this time I thought
that she was the black paint,
but it was me, who was the paint.
And I took all of her light,
a black hope in space
kissing the suns of my theory
one last time,
into the darkness they went
and back to the darkness
that they came from.
And my art teacher used to say
“Don’t add the black paint until you’re ready for the finished product.”
I finally listened.
So I let go of her a few days ago.
I told myself that I needed to stop.
Stop talking to her like she was
the sunset we all adored
and how her eyes meant the world,
and it it meant that she’d wink
butterflies into the pit of my stomach,
I’d die as a self-imploding star.
So I stopped myself from being
more black paint, I crossed out
her face with my own fingers
and kissed her one last time.
My art teacher used to say
“because this black is undoing, you cannot paint over it with white the black is so dense, it’s raw, it’s real it stops all hints of color under it over and over it. Because this is art and art is life, art is poetry and art is love, because art it everything and anything”
So I became the nights she had to sleep alone, so I became the nights I cried to sleep, so I became free from her love and I finally understood my art teacher, I finally understood my ex.
“Black paint is the purest color and lightest of color if used correctly with the right amount of care and tender”
Add a little black with white
and you’ll have grey.
Add a little black with red
and you you’ll have my bleeding heart.
and a little black and blue
and you’ll have her bruised lips.
And a little black with yellow
and you’ll have her eye color.
add a little black to my soul,
and you’ll have lust.
Add a little black to my heart,
and you’ll have her.
And I could swear I head my art teacher say.
“You’ll let go of her one day when you’re ready, you’ll add red aver all of your paintings because they’ll remind you of her lips, it’ll be you favorite color, you’ll ad blue over your roses because red has too much passion, it’s on fire and sometimes we have to appreciate the beauty of weirdness, poetry and art is weird, the best kind, you’ll add pale yellow for her skin tome and you’ll add dark, dark brown near lonely tree trunks because it’ll remind you of her eyes that cried every night because you didn’t know how to love, young kids finding slipped pants unhooked bras more satisfying than adding black paint to solidify a relationship that could’ve been, and you’ll add your last drop, the finishing touch, you’ll be the black paint, and she’ll be the finished product.”
And I finally listened.
I finally listened to art teacher.
So I let you of, baby.
The world is your canvas
and I was the black paint.
His lips your new black paint,
and you, his unfinished product.
Francisco DH Nov 2012
Paint me a picture with fiery red clashing with sentimental blue
paint me a picture with groovy orange dancing with mellow golden yellow
Paint me a picture with hidden meanings That only i can interpret
Paint me a picture that shows you love me

paint me a picture that shows the sorrow of the world
Paint me a picture with music coming from trumpets
paint me a picture with fireworks in the air
Paint me a picture, just paint me a picture
That shows how you feel

Just paint me a picture
Nigel Morgan Apr 2013
after the painting by Mary Fedden

I kept seeing her around and about, but mostly on the beach. This is a small community and after five years or so I know who everyone is, except those who visit in the summer, though I am getting to know some of the regulars. I reckon she’s my age. When she looks at me in the store, and I look at her and smile, her smile tells me these things.

I have trouble with my hair. It’s thinned and doesn’t grow quite as it should. When I was pregnant and then nursing my children it was positively luxuriant. But later, and despite medical advice (and treatment I was unsure about and abandoned) it became an embarrassment, until he reassured me (just once) and I became an ‘adored woman’. He never ever spoke of it again and loved me so wholly and beautifully I had no reason for it to matter in his company, in his arms.

But seeing her, and often on the beach, more and more regularly, seeing her with her mane of strong dark brown hair flowing behind her in the wind, I felt a curious desire for such a wealth of hair. In fact, I began to feel something stir in me that was desire of a different kind. I can’t think I had ever looked at a woman in quite that way in any previous life. It was always men I sought, I wanted.

Her name is Sara, no h, just an A at the end. She said that when I eventually introduced myself. We were walking towards each other, barefoot both on that glistening skin of water the sea creates between the tides coming and going. It was about midday and I was, I was thinking and walking. I do this now. I don’t bring my sketchbook, I don’t look everywhere I can and more so, I have begun to retreat into my most private self. Perhaps it’s my age and so many years of feeling I had to be wholly attentive and active. Being in this remote place, almost permanently, has slowed me down, and I have begun to dream, to see beyond what I usually would have seen moment to moment. I’ve been re-reading the prose and poetry of Kathleen Raine, who understood this sea-swept place and was haunted by its ghosts, and who dreamed.

Never, never, again
This moment, never
These slow ripples
Across smooth water,
Never again these
Clouds white and grey
In sky crystalline
Blue as the tern’s cry
Shrill in the light air
Salt from the ocean,
Sweet from flowers

Oh yes,  
‘the sun that rose this morning from the sea will never return . . .’* I have become a watcher, no longer an observer. I put my camera away last winter and now hold moments in my memory. Here I can sketch. I can have all the time I need, and more. And I knew when I began to talk to Sara I wanted beyond anything else to sketch her, to know her line by line with the pen, and later bring the texture of her into paint.

Painting is where I am now. It’s direct, mesmeric, challenging, wholly absorbing. My needles and thread only deal with our clothes, my clever printing and collaging lies dormant in my studio, a studio I rarely enter now. I have a room upstairs in the loft that is all light and sky. There’s just an easel, a table, a chair, a small bookcase, a trolley-thing of paints and brushes. Even that’s too much. I always collected things around me. I brought so much in from outside and now I’m trying, trying to have as little as possible. This is where I will paint Sara. I’m already thinking this as we take the first tentative steps towards knowing one another. Names, where we live, (we both know). Partners, family, children? I have all this, but not here, only my companion, my love who caresses me with such care and attention. There are my cats and my hens. She has no one, or rather she talks of no one. She asks the questions and avoids giving answers. She just nods and doesn’t answer. Otherwise, she’s a straight yes / no person. She doesn’t feel she has to qualify anything.

We’re standing together. We’re intent on looking at each other. Words seem a little unnecessary because what we both want to do is look. ‘I can tell you paint’, she says, ‘It’s your finger nails’. My perfect nails and the pads of my fingers hold the evidence of a morning at my easel. ‘I have seen your work’, she says, ‘One could hardly not. You’re well known beyond these shores.’ I feel myself blushing slightly. I thought blushing had stopped with the menopause, not that it troubled me much, the menopause that is. Blushing though was a torturous part of my adolescence, but let’s not go into that.

‘Your husband,’ she says, ‘he’s up very early. I see him sometimes here, on the beach.’
‘Do you get up at five?’ I am surprised. My husband gets up before five.
‘Sleep is difficult sometimes. I walk a lot. I need to be out, and walk.’

Her face, her head is larger than mine. She is a larger woman altogether, bigger *****, long-legged, but with youthful ******* that seem taut and well-rounded under her brown frock, no, her brown dress. I only think frock because that’s what he says – ‘I love that frock.’ And he means usually whatever I am wearing now that’s old and rich in memories of his hands knowing me through a dress, sorry a frock, which remains for me (and possibly for him) the most sensuous of sensations, still. Au nature has its place, and I love the rub of his skin and body hair. But when we are lovers, and we are still lovers and usually when travelling, in hotel rooms or borrowed cottages, or visiting friends and dare I say it, staying with our various children. Last autumn in Venice, in this large, amazing marble-tiled room, with this huge bed, he undressed me in front of a window opening onto our own terrace, and I was beside myself with passion, desire, oh all those wonderful things. And for months afterwards I would return to that early evening, remembering the lights coming on all over the watered city as he kissed and stroked and brushed my body through my Gudrun Sjödén frock. I would replay, find again over and over, those exquisite moments of such joyful touching as he then undressed me, and with such care and tenderness I felt myself crying out. Well, he says I did. In one of his poems (for your eyes only, he had whispered) he admits to his own celebration of those moments again, again.

Sara’s dress is calf-length. There’s nothing else. As the breeze wraps itself around the loose-fitting brown cotton her naked figure is revealed inside itself. No ring, no jewellery, nothing to hold her hair now flowing behind her. She has positioned herself so it does; flow out behind her. This is so strange. Am I dreaming this? We have become silent and together look in silence at the sea. I can hear her short breathes. She turns to me with a smile and looks straight into my eyes – and says nothing – and then walks backward a few steps – still with her warm smile – turns and walks away.

I tell him I met Sara today and ask if he sees her on the beach in the early mornings. Yes, he has, in the distance, mostly. He has said good morning to her on a few occasions, but she has smiled and said nothing. Five o’clock is far too early to say anything, he says. She swims occasionally. I keep my distance, he says with a grin.

I tell him I would like to paint her. I should, he says, You should go and ask her, do it, get it done and out of your system. It’s time you stopped being afraid of the face, the portrait, the figurative. I’d give so much to have been able to paint you, he says ruefully, my darling, my dearest. And he strokes my arm, kisses my cheek, then, he slowly and carefully kneels down beside my chair, places his arm across the top of my thighs so when I bend to kiss him his bare forearm touches the edge of my *******. He puts his head in my lap, and I caress his ears, his quite white hair.

Sara’s door is open. She’s living in Ralph’s cottage, a summer-let habitable (just) in the nearly autumn time it is. I call, ‘Sara, it’s me’, thinking she’ll recognize my voice, not wishing to say my name. She appears at the door. ‘I have the kettle on, she says, ‘I had a feeling you might be by.’ Her accent is, like mine, un-regional, carefully articulated, a Welsh tinge perhaps. There’s an uplift and a slowness in some of the vowels. ‘You will come in’, she says, more a statement than a question. It’s rather dark inside. There’s a reading lamp on, but she has the chair, her chair, close by the window. There are letters being written. There are books. Not Ralph’s, but what she has brought with her. Normally, I would be hopelessly inquisitive, but I can’t stop myself looking at her, wondering even now, in these first few moments in this dark room, how I will position her to paint her form, her face, her nature. What will I paint? I look at her still-bare feet, her large hands.

And so, with mugs of tea, Indian tea I don’t drink, but here, as her guest I do, but without milk, we sit, I on the only other chair (from the kitchen) she on the floor. And she watches me look about, and look at her.

‘I’m rather done with talking, with polite conversation. That’s why I’m here to be done with all that for a while.’
‘I came to ask you to sit for me. To let me draw you, paint you even. You can be completely quiet. I won’t say a word. I’ve never, ever asked anyone to sit for me. I’m not that sort of painter. But when I saw you on the beach it was the first thing that came into my head.’
‘I should be flattered. Though I have sat for artists before, when I was a little younger,’ surprisingly she mentions two names I know, both women. ‘I know how to be still. But, those are days in a different life.’
‘I only want to paint you in the life you have now.’ And I realise then that what I want to paint was Sara’s ‘aloneness’. I think then I have never been truly alone since he came into my life and took any loneliness I had from me. Whenever we are apart, and still there are times, he writes to me the tenderest letters, the most touching poems, he quotes his Chinese favourites down the telephone. We always, always speak to each other before bed, even when we are on different continents and time-zones. He told me I was always his last thought before sleep. And I wonder if I would be his last thought . . .

‘Do you want to do this formally?, said Sara.
‘I don’t know. Yet. I’d like to draw you first, be with you for a little while, perhaps to walk. A little while at a time. Whatever might suit you.’
‘Would you pay me? I have little money. It would be useful.’
‘Of course’, I say this directly, having no idea about what one pays a model. He will know though. He knew Paula Rego and didn’t she have a female model? I think of those large full-length figures rendered in pastels. Her model’s name was Lila, who for more than 25 years, had sat for her, stood for her, crouched for her, hour after hour and day after day. I remember a newspaper piece that went something like this: since 1985 Lila has helped to give life, in paint, and pastel, and charcoal, to the characters in Paula Rego's head. Lila was all Paula Rego’s women.

‘Sara’, I said, ‘help me please. It’s taken more than a little courage to come to see you, to ask you. My husband says I should do this, finally get myself painting the person, the face, body, not as some exercise in a life class, but the real thing.’
‘Of course’, she says, ‘Let’s go and walk to the point.’

And we did. Not saying very much at all, but I suppose I did. She made me talk and gradually I laid my life out in front of her, and not the life she would have found in those glossy monographs and catalogue introductions, and God forbid, not in those media features and interviews that I suppose have made me a name I’d always dreamed of becoming, and now could do without.

‘I suppose you have a studio’, she said suddenly, ‘Is that where you’d want me to come?’
‘Yes, I have a studio. No, I don’t think I want you to come there. Not at first anyway.’ I was floundering. ‘ I’d like to draw you, paint you possibly on the beach, where we met, so there would be sea and sky and breeze blowing your hair.’
‘And a steamer out on the horizon belching smoke from its funnel and the sea blowing white horses and dancing about. I’d be right by the seastrand with waves and spray and foam, and under a greyish sky. Not a sunny day. A breezy day. In my brown dress, sitting on the sand by the tide marks, looking out to sea, looking at the steamer away in the distance, sitting with my left hand behind me holding myself up, and the shape of my legs akimbo bent slightly under my brown dress. How would that be?’
‘Perfect’, I said.

And it was.
Jade Louise Mar 2015
Phase 1:
The rain was eating the world
The acid drops falling into attack
At first they had been glistening
Sparkling clear, like giant glass tears
So beautiful a child held out his tongue
But then they had began frightening the flowers, puckering holes in their pastel petals
They made the crisp paint coats of houses stream in desperate colorful tears
The roads filled, like acid rivers
Rivers that no sail could survive
The world dissolving, right before my very eyes
Like a canvas being erased from inside its frame

I was running with my umbrella
Clear plastic hexagon on a handle
Hovering Above my head
Like an insect’s stretched out wings
Sheltering me from the storm
My magic umbrella
My rain boots pacing faster, acid avoiding my eyes
Getting to the silva garden

The silva garden was dripping in cobwebs
Shining like stretched strings of ice sickles
Medinal mushrooms formed in clusters
***** and distinct
My head was spinning from the odor
The silva garden’s sleeping spell overcoming me

A lightening bolt cracked outside
Splitting the sky into two
Toxic clouds steaming into the atmosphere


Phase Two:
Toxic air
The animals breathing in its chemistry
Their eyes growing wild
The barks leaping from their vocal chords
In short snaps at first
Then as the insanity ensues, stretched energy
Howling, growling, wild
Ravenous
The humans locking their doors

My heart still beating
Like a drum
Searching for silva
The garden encased like a giant glass box
Holding the plant that ends the storm
Me like a fish in a bowl, separated from the rest of the world
Trying to find the silva
To save it

My eyes searching
The silva daisy lying somewhere in this glass greenhouse
Each time, to be found in a different place
Like lightening, never striking in the same place twice
Silva never grows in the same place twice
Once plucked, reappears somewhere else
Wherever you would least suspect
Somewhere in this garden

My eyes dry and stinging,
My hair tangled and tired
My clothes with poked holes from where tiny droplets of acid rain hit
Raggedy
The poisonous plants begging me to touch them
Like Eve and the apple
The dirt has no daisy
No silva to be found
But then

The water pool
Cool and placid
Like a mill pond
I dive in
Silver catching my eye
The daisy, like any daisy
Except silver

Lying untouched at the bottom of the pond
My hand plucks it
I had dove in like a mermaid
I emerged like an animal
On a mission

I escape the greenhouse doors
I pluck the silva petals, scattering them into the rain
As a hungry dog approaches me, morphed like a wolf
Mid leap its teeth about to sink into my neck
The silva petals pressed flat by the rain into the concrete
The acid burning my skin


Phase 3:
And then
Relief
The rain sweet like lilacs and water
Me turning into circles as the dog presses me with wet sloppy kisses
The rainbow shining, an upside-down smile
The plants glistening and growing
The birds chirping, their voices light like silhouettes
The world in harmony
Children running out of their houses
The animals rolling in the grass, the woodlands

Me, standing, left holding the silver stem
Tears rolling down my cheeks
How many times would I have to do this?
My mouth like a bow
My hands like a lotus
How many times would I have to stop the chaos?
More tears


Phase 3: The Maker's Forest*
Then, giant hands scooping me up
My body the length of the pinky
The giant hands without arms
Stretched out to me from the sky

Carrying me
Across forests and fields
I peer over the thumb
Passing over deserts and oceans
A tiny breeze tugging at my hair
Sleep overtaking me
How many times will I have to stop the chaos?
Dissolving into my dreams
Like a tiny doll in my makers hands

I wake up in darkness
Except for a crack of sunlight, smiling in
I’m in a sphere enclosure
My hands tear at the two walls of the split
Breaking open the egg I was in
The soft segments of the shell lying in cracked pieces around me
I am in a nest, with three other eggs
A nest high up in a tree

I climb down the tree
Branch by branch
I am in the Maker’s forest
The Maker’s healing forest

I have heard before we have a Maker
But I never believed it
How could I
If we had a maker, why would our world keep falling apart
Why would I keep having to retrieve the silva daisy to remedy it

I walk down the forest path, getting closer to the sky blue cottage
The path is lined with evergreens, redwoods, trees tall and high
Filled with hundreds of nests and eggs

Phase 5: The Maker's Paint Studio
I open the white picket gate
And a painter emerges
Dressed in off-white overalls and an apron, carrying a brush with a tip of ruby pink paint
No words yet
Just sparkling blue eyes, shaggy grey hair, and old creased skin

I catch sight of myself in the reflection of a puddle and gasp
My lips are ruby pink like a bow
My skin is healed like porcelain
My hair is soft and silky, falling in waves down my summer dress
The whole forest is bright and shining

How did I come to look like this
How did I come to heal so fast?
Why is this forest so beautiful?

Come with me
The painter says
I step inside, the room filled with pallets of paint and aisles
The walls covered like canvases
In illustrations and images
The golden desert I passed over on one wall

The sparkling ocean whose breeze tugged my hair on the next
And on the canvas, me
I’m standing there, the silver stem in my hand
But the world around me, its not falling apart and dissolving

Its beautiful
I look at the painter
The chaos I say
I can’t take it anymore

I tell him
This world you paint
It pains me
Paint something prettier

Don’t ever paint a storm again
Why can’t you always paint the pretty picture on the canvas?

That’s the world I want to live in
But I do, the painter replies
His eyes kind

But I am not the only painter
He says looking at me

My illustrations, he smiles
The people I paint,
They can paint too
And the world you see,
Sometimes it’s the world you paint

You mean, the storm? I painted it?
He smiles
It wouldn’t be very fair if I was the only one allowed to paint now would it?
"How do I stop? How do I stop painting storms?
I don’t ever want to leave this pretty forest"

He faces a white canvas, starts painting a tiny girl
Sometimes what we see, he says
Its more of a reflection of what could be, of our minds eye, than what is really there
Storms do happen of course

But the storm you see and save
Is the storm of your mind
Let me ask you something
Are you afraid?

Yes, I reply
And what are you afraid of?
Well everything, I reply.
There is so much to be afraid of

Then that is what you are seeing, he says
Free yourself
Of all nonexistent time, of what could be and what was
And just be exactly where you are
And you will see things as they really are
Your paintings will add the beautiful details to my paintings

With that the, little girl, the one with the short brown hair and pink dress steps off the canvas
She smiles at us
And then opens the cottage door, her ruby lips and blue eyes taking in the forest around her, walking further into it

Phase 6: The Storm of your Eye
And then I’m back, with my hexagonal umbrella
Running to the silva garden
Acid rain splashing around me
Instead though, I stop
The world doesn’t need the silva, I hear my Maker say
The silva isn’t even real
I stop and close my eyes
Forget my doubts
And everything that could go wrong
I forget everything
The blood running through my veins, the splashing acid, the storming clouds
My minds goes blank

When I open my eyes
The world is quiet
Then I hear the sweet chirping of birds singing
Children playing

An old man walking his dog
“Looks like it might rain” he says, pointing to a far away cloud
I close my umbrella
I won’t be needing it*

~ JLH
Tim Emminger Mar 2014
Paint me some spring flowers
Pansies and Crocus; purple and white
Dogwood trees with their, pinks and whites
Paint me some green on the grass and shrubs
On the trees, paint some buds
Paint me a cardinal in a pine tree
A Robin in the grass
Paint me some baby birds in their nest
Paint me a baby blue sky with a few puffy white clouds
and Please! Paint me a big orange sun
It's been a long cold winter
Paint the sun as big as a page
I need to warm up
Spring is already late :  )
2nd Trending Poem
dSitoun Aug 2015
Paint me as I am,

With black wavy hair,

Smiling and laughing,

dancing to any rhythm I hear.

Paint me as I am,

With dark brown eyes,

Curiosity peeking,

Eyes smiling.

Paint me as I am,

Why won't you paint me?

Paint me!

Paint me happy!

Paint me free!

Just paint me without the sadness within me.

Please, I beg of you,

Paint me happy.
Lexi Vinton Feb 2015
I paint myself with yellow paint.
Very bright,
very nice.

I run around in the daylight sun,
all bright and happy and cheerful,
all covered in yellow paint.

I see people looking.
I smile,
I wave.

The paint begins to chip.
The dark navy blue paint that is underneath begins to show.
People are looking.

I apply another coat of yellow paint,
along with a smile.
Bright, happy, cheerful.

I keep painting on the yellow paint,
coat upon coat.
The only thing I have to hide is the blue underneath.

At night the people stop looking.
I wash off the yellow.
Dark, sad, forlorn.

I am covered,
head to toe,
in the dark blue paint.

I am always covered by a shield of blue paint.
The yellow paint is washable,
but the blue is permanent.

The sun rises,
the people are looking.
Once again, I cover myself with yellow paint.
Rockie Jun 2015
Painting in the secrets
Of a thousand lies
Is fun
As you get to paint in
How you see those lies

Let's paint our hair red
Of a thousand fires
So fun,
As you get to paint it
How you really want to

Aggressively painting canvases
Of a thousand depictions
It's fun
As you get to paint whatever
How you really see it

*Let's go paint something, sister.
Together.
I was listening to Paramore's 'Ain't It Fun' and the video/Hayley's hair inspired me, so...A poem!
HeatherBeth Apr 2016
Paint the walls
Paint the floors
Paint the cracks
Bettween the doors
Paint your love
The prettiest hue
Paint a smile
Just for you
Paint the trees
And paint the roses
Make everything
The color of posies
And while you're at it
Paint the lasses
The ones who dance
And sing of ashes
Paint the town
And paint the world
But leave untouched
One little girl
For if you Paint
All over her
You'll forget about
Who you were
You can change the world around you,  but you should always love you. There are many people who forget that.
r0b0t Nov 2014
I will paint you with
Pastel emotions
Red rage and
Blue fear and
I will paint you with
Sweeping black curves
Reminiscent of your hips and
I will paint you with neon rage and
I will paint you with soft words and
I will paint you with a white kiss
Shivering as if it is snowing
and some nights I will miss you
in shades of orange
as bright as the rising sun
and some days will be sad
and in those days
we can find each other in purple
And I will paint you with my words and
We will be immortalized in canvas.
James H Butko Sep 2017
conversation, in the rain
dry only half the way but i can cope
a carrier pidgeon waits for me in my chambers
with a message that shatters my armour
i'm back in the present, no jokes in sight
not much else happened that night
morning came and raps were had
my brother dragged me out of bed
to see a face that said it all
top bunk, tears flowed
the world went on

somewhere new now
they treat us like toddlers
have us paint a window that they're taking down soon
but i can still farm at home
but a service for the fallen
on the other side of town
i end up there and panic panic
what else is there to do
the worst has happened
anything is possible
but nothing else happens
for a long time actually
but winter becomes spring again
and life goes on
i ride a faulty elevator to work
but it's worth it to put out fires i start
just so i can start more fires
in retrospect it's hazy
probably from wildfire smoke
wish i could go back
but life goes on

closer to it now
like i've never been before
these things would fit like puzzle peices
if i were upsidedown or oppsosite
it doesn't last and i go fast
i fight the transformation to a rat
for a while, it works
and i swim and talk of new york city
and maybe even feel alive for once
but just once
paint walls, paint walls, paint walls
so sorry i missed your calls
paint walls, paint walls, paint walls
so sorry i- oh, no calls
and the green grass grows around me
i climb to the roof to escape it
i hear it could eat you inside out
but the grass becomes a bog
and then the bog becomes a lake
where rocks can skip forever
you just have to close your eyes
before you see them sink
a serenity of sorts, a pillow for the devil
but i can't run no more, unless it's for a hat
keep the hat, i'll be sleeping in the snow
or in a tree that's more alive than me

but a shock to the system hits me hard
an eye looks into mine again
the connection lasts no longer than a millennium
so i get the wind to stroke my head
then christmas comes
i walk outside
light snowfall
can be seen beneath street lights
it falls from the clouds above
and probably from my eyes too
but i don't remember it, or more accurately
i remember it like a painting
a painting i didn't make
despite all the paint i'd gathered
and the lessons i had taken
i look at something this perfect
and i think for a second
one short trip inside my mind
is enough to convince me
this wasn't me, but i wish it was

i hope the artist never paints again
but he did
because they kept giving him paint
he tried to drink the paint
but it was non-toxic
but he also got used to the taste of paint
tastes like tv static and old home tapes
i'm sorry for being born
but i should'nt feel too guilty
i saved them from all this
i am the martyr *****
the story should've ended there
all in all, this year was hell
this is my poetic autobiography of how i experienced the year 2013
If one day my pen became a brush
Oh how I'd paint so well for you~
I do love so as well in life to paint
But can't seem to do it here it's true~
I'd paint for you the mountains and the trees
The cloud formations , sandy beaches long~
I'd paint my true love , and all above
With colors pastel and so gently strong~
Such scenes of care beyond compare
How I'd paint the sun and as well the moon~
If my pen was to become but a brush
I'd paint dew drops on a red balloon~
Rays of sunshine wet on roses
Butterflies in flight~
If my pen was but a brush
How I'd paint as well as write~
If my pen became a brush its true
I'd even paint your smile~
I'd paint how I feel about just you
And how I'd do so with such style~
If my pen became a brush
I'd paint the whole world for you~
And if my pen became a brush
I'd paint of my love for you so true~

Terrence Michael Sutton
Copyright 2018
there is paint
it peels from my eyes
in long gaseous ribbons
it is punctuated by
a bright blindness
where methodologies
reach no conclusions
paint peels from my ears
in uncontested echoes
projecting a self
generated audible universe
paint peels from my mouth
in black storms
of expanded consciousness
leaving behind a particulated
paralized partition
that leaves me disconnected
in a correspondence of color
A field of snow
turning blue under moonlight
in accord with the peeling of paint
like a light emitted by relative thought
paint peels, paint peels, paint peels
Carolin Jul 2014
Paint me on a paper or paint me in your head. You can even paint me lying down on bed.
I don't care where you paint me as long as you paint me beside you. Splash the paint on my skin and watch the sin begin. Paint me in red or in different shades of blue. I don't care if you even paint me kissing you. Just promise you'll hang my portraits up on your bedroom walls. Cause they will scare any shadow that comes out and crawls ~
B M Clark May 2014
Paint a picture for me
Paint me the night
Paint the world as you see it
Paint it with love

Paint for me your hopes
Paint your dreams intertwined
Paint the thing you want most
Paint the best you can

You've painted all you want
And all you see
Paint now what you have
And what you love

Now you've done that
Step back, take a look
What have you created?
A master piece of you.

But do not gaze long
Do not gaze often and dream
Instead put it away
Go pursue the dreams you've created.

Nothing is worse,
No nothing hurts
More than a dream
You do not pursue
07/04/2010
10th Grade
16 years old
Little Bear Aug 2016
1)  get a canvas

2)  get some unicorn paint

3)  paint a unicorn

4)  realize you can't paint a unicorn

5)  cry

6)  paint the moon

7)  put glitter and a horn on the moon

8)  pretend it's a fat unicorn

9)  be happy

10) show your dog

11) call the dog back into the room

12) show your dog again

13) get a new dog

14) show that dog

15) tell that dog it's being too critical

16) ask that dog to leave

17) put the picture in the bin

18) decide never to paint unicorns again

19) eat chocolate

20) decide to paint a dragon
"Paint me a dead body tonight". When you paint you are at your utmost emotional level. There is absolutely nothing you care about other than getting that image that's in your mind on the piece of canvas. That image that is haunting your mind and will continue to do so until you lay it out on that heavy duty plain-woven-fabric.
It's like when you paint you don't feel anything.
Not the hunger.
Not the fatigue.
Not the thirst.
Cause that's when you pour your true feelings and emotions out and sketch and color and oh my, darling do you paint.
You have a gift.
Cause when you paint it's not the body which is making the art, it's the soul. So tonight, let your soul out once more. Let your body - a mere cocoon - be left behind. Fly away one more time tonight, my love.
"Play with my **** & bare canvas,
Play well with my fear & fright.
Sketch me another ******, honey.
Paint me another dead body tonight."
-Aks, Paint me a dead body.
Avery Greensmith Apr 2014
you and me both know that sometimes when something's beautiful
you want to touch it, even if you start to burn up
the beauty of that if precious above everything
(remember that time I wanted to kiss you in the rain?
it's like that.)
people never understand me
and I think that's part of the reason
I'm almost too afraid of touching the beautiful thing
for the fear of the beautiful thing being disgusted
by the shade of my eyes as they look at something
so wonderful
it's like smiling when you're sad
why would you smile to hide your feelings?
your feelings are your everything and yet
no one wants to share them with the world
I don't either, but I want to hear everyone's feelings
I want to hold them and tell them that just because
their feelings are lying, discarded on the floor,
doesn't mean that they're like spilled paint
that dries on the art room floor until years later
the janitor ventures in and frees
those hopes and dreams that died right there, on the floor.
I don't want to be spilled paint,
even though I'm already there
the only reason the artist keeps me around is too
comfort those aching paintbrushes and to
make sure they keep themselves neat and orderly.
You can't have paintbrushes having breakdowns when you're an artist, can you?
only paint can calm the paintbrush but why
would you make a paintbrush continue the same
miserable way if the paintbrushes only wanted
to paint in black and white
and I am a dark blue,
as dark as the ocean, but not like the ocean.
i want to be like the ocean.
too beautiful to touch, but touching everything.
how are you like the ocean?
I want to know how to be like the ocean
which has strength to go on everyday
breathing air into someone's lungs who hasn't breathed
by themselves in years.
everyone needs to breath sometimes,
so keep breathing darling
in and out is the constant cycle of the ocean,
and your breathing.
maybe it's not the ocean I want to be like,
i just want to be beautifully dangerous to hold you
at 5 am when you're breaking down and I don't know
what to do.
when you can't breathe those beautiful breathes
I want to be strong enough to pump the life back into you
I'll work through the night pushing you to live, for me
but then I'll wake up in the morning and realize
that you were never there in the first place.
just wisps of my wishful imagination floating through
the night sky.
anything can happen during the night air,
including finding a beautiful dangerous ocean to love.
perhaps one day I will wake up and
the beautiful ocean struggling to breathe won't be
a strike of imagination and you'll actually be there next to me.
but for now I'll be wasted paint on the floor.
if I can't have an ocean to love, I will be wasted paint
to help the paintbrushes paint a beautiful photograph of dangerous
oceans with beautiful, crashing waves.
I hope that they will all remember it when the world has
faded into dust and the only thing left is that
picture burning a whole in their minds and they, too
slowly fade into dust.
Javaria Waseem Aug 2015
paint me with all those messy colors and broken brushes.
paint me with your rough hands and scrappy fingertips.
paint me with all your love and your regrets.
paint me in a dark room with uneven breath.
paint me with dried out lips and the tip of your tongue
paint me all night till you're halted by the sun.
c Oct 2018
Painting me
Like one of your French girls
Is a little worse than cliche.
Paint me in your mind
With rose petals for hips
And the most divine night sky
Beneath my lashes.
Speckle pigments across my skin
Freckles like wet sand, stuck.
Color my scars brightest
Impure veins like that of a leaf
Carrying stories, not water.
Paint my smile most of all
Paint it weighed down by stones
Too many for anyone to remember
Yet stretching, brightly
As if to reach the moon.
Above all else, paint me yours.
Take a soft tipped brush
Dip, and trace my nakedness;
Viscous dripping rainbow streams
Clothe me here within our dreams.
Swirl my curves
With satin pink,
Let your brush flutter and sink
lower, purples, red and blue,
I'm a canvas here for you.
Paint me scarlet, paint me gold,
Paint some words
italic, bold
Stop when you begin to weep
A masterpiece, for us to keep.
An old one of mine, a favourite.
Cake Jazpick Jan 2013
We Haven't Found an Anchor Yet (But This'll Have to Do)



...

Tear the clock off the wall
We'll say we invented
A world where time passes
The way it was meant to


We'll build it out of bottlecaps
Or cadences of songs
That were sung a long long time ago
And will be sung long after
We're all gone

It was good to sing along

Or build it out of unmade beds
Or scratches on the walls
Or the things we said before
We went to bed and
All the parts we can't recall

I know I loved it all


Our hearts are still red
And the walls are still white
And we haven't got a map
But we've got all night

The sky may turn black
But the ocean's still blue
We haven't found an anchor yet
But this'll have to do


Tear the clock off the wall
We'll say we invented
A world where time passes
The way it was meant to

Throw yourself to the wind
Let it take us wherever it will
We've hours and pages
and glasses to fill



Art for Aeroplanes



It was something, it had to be
something about the sound
The wind chimes made
That reminded me

Below flickering shapes
of the last silhouettes of the leaves
in trees in autumn yards we
made our way through

The melody was
Aimless and the
Cadence never came
So much different than the
Saddest thing
A symphony could play

Like the sounds from our childhood
Resolved into a wordless hum
We understood


It was something, perhaps
A particular way that the light
Hit the street
That reminded me

Connecting the dots
On those stumbling walks between
Softer parts of mid December's
Muddy sting

It had rained and made those
multi coloured
columns on the ground
We went walking down the middle
there was
No one else around

I think I felt the way we did
In all our favorite hiding spots
When we were kids


It was gone in an instant
It was gone in an instant
And so were we
We had places to be


Afternoon's grid
Of jet trails overhead
Looked nothing like the lines we would've left
Had we spilled paint behind us
Everywhere we threw ourselves
When that high sun had set

Not sure what we're looking for
If anything at all

Something that we've seen before?
Something that we lost?

Or maybe this is it, for all we know

The light was bright, we turned away
And the bits of it that stayed
Looked something like the softly focused
Half remembered shape of things
From sun baked roads so long ago
On rainy days

Not sure what we're looking for
If anything at all

Something that we've seen before?
Something that we lost?

Maybe this is it, all I know is
If our faces showed a little of the lights inside our heads
We put on quite a show

And so
One more for the road



One Thousand Little Rooms



We've left our shoes
By the doors of a thousand places
Much like this one
Before

I've seen those colours
In the eyes of a thousand faces
Much like yours
And yours and yours and yours

Marilee is pounding the keys of
A piano all covered in ash
Below bottles in a row on a windowsill
With paint stains on the glass
Paint stains on the glass


I think we're made up of
Sparsely scattered instances
In places
In time

Like shapes of cities at night
Are but a million filaments
Of incandescent light

Marilee still pounding the keys of
A piano all covered in ash
Below bottles in a row on a windowsill
With paint stains on the glass

And our conversation fell
And our conversation rose
And our conversation fell
And our conversation rose
And all the things we had to say
Overlapped the notes to make a space
Your restless island souls could call a coast


One thousand little rooms
Where we light our little fires at night
Are like the places in our lives and inside our minds
The way the shape of the city is a million lights
From little rooms where we light our little fires at night
Are like the places in our lives and inside our minds
The way the shape of the city is a million lights
From little rooms where we light our little fires at night
Are like the places in our lives and inside our minds
The way the shape of the city is a million lights
The little rooms where we light our little fires

Are what we call our home tonight
Are what we call our home tonight
Are what we call our home tonight
Are what we call our home tonight



Farewell Fires & Flying Machines



That night you brought a camera
That night your hands shook, but
It was the closest that you ever came, I'd say
To how it really looked

That night you wore a sweater
You left it lying on the floor
The folds I traced with tired eyes like some old map with lines that led to
Places we'd forgotten things before

So throw your paint on every wall
Illustrate the cadences of our favorite songs
Give them a shape
They're prone to fade away

We still had lights behind our eyelids
Long after we'd all gone to bed
I'd love to save them but I've never been a painter
And so I write it down instead

And I'll fill one thousand pages
I'll write whatever comes to mind
And on the day I find myself one thousand miles away
Perhaps a part of me will still exist behind

So throw your paint on every wall
Illustrate the cadences of our favorite songs
While I'm describing fleeting dreams
Of faces, streets, and wine
We'll make them real

Oh, but what colour was that fire anyways, my dear?


When I leave I'm going very far away
When I leave I'm going very far away

When I leave I'm going very far away
I don't want to see your colours fade
When I leave I'm going very far away
I don't want to see your colours fade

I don't want to see you
Looking like those grey remains
Of last night's farewell fires
Waiting to be swept away

So throw your paint on every wall
Illustrate the cadence of our favorite song
Each and every brightly coloured, tired eye
We'll leave a mark at all
The highest spots we rise

There are things which have no shape



While We're All Still Here**



We hid away in places
No one else would ever think to look
Imagined that the things we said
Were inked and set in pages
Of some great book

Well in a way they were
I think
Although we'll never know
Quite how the whole thing ends

When the sun begins to rise
When all our lines are said
When, someday this moment's passed us by
The way we seem to pass our shadows
As we're passed by cars at night

Will we see pages?
Looking like familiar flags
Will we see them through Old Eyes?

It was hand on heart
It was heart on sleeve
Impossible to miss, but
It was hard to believe
It was staring at the sun
It was stumbling blind
It was a place
It was a time
It was hard to define
It was the sum of all our footprints
And the paint we may have spilled
It was a little like a blueprint
Of a thing we'd planned to build
It was the times we had to whisper
And the things we had to shout
It was the candle that we lit
To see the last one burning out
It was hazy
It was aimless
It was staying the course
It was a weighty affair
With direction and force
It was a world that we built
Out of bits of thin air
It was bent light in a parting glass we've yet to share

We're all still here


There will come a day
When the sky goes dark with
Aeroplanes, angels, and black clouds

But we're still here
For now

There will come a day
When the sky goes dark with
Aeroplanes, angels, and black clouds

But we're still here
For now

...
These are the lyrics for a five song mini-album I've been writing (obsessing over) for the past couple months.
BB Tyler Aug 2010
Walking down the street;
I had just slipped into something comfortable.
ironic

I saw your head between
the horizon and the sidewalk,
and smiled at your lips
silhouetted.
you didn't turn.
i didn't want you too.
you didn't.

why didn't you turn?

suddenly the rain hit me like
paint.
i imagined the cityscape drowned
in the paint rain.

It filled the transparent drops of gray
with the sky,
and your eyes,
and that look on your face

surfaces striking simutaniously
and spreading reflected light into my eyes,
like a sunset.
the spilling of
the sky,
your eyes,
the look on your face

i took cover in a man hole.
the shaft of illumination
from above
making me
half a man

the paint rain still came down
dripping into my
privacy.

i stayed there;
not due
to apathy, anger
or you.
but just so i could see
the paint rain fall

i drowned like the city in the paint rain.
drenched in color.
soaked.
i drowned in the paint rain,
that wasn't gray today

i drowned like the city
in the sky,
in your eyes,

i drowned in that look on your face
Copyright: Bennett Tyler
srax May 2018
they'll paint white walls over your thoughts
because they think simplicity looks better than polka dots.

they will strip you down to nothing
because bare is better than bare minimum.

they say your body is your canvas,
then why are they scribbling
on her canvas?

they’ll doodle words,
perhaps phrases of flatter
like "You're pretty"
teaching her that that's all that matters.

They'll hang up a **** model picture
because her body should look like this, you know?
Richer.

They'll say her body is a temple
“she's eating all that for lunch?”
they'll say her body is a temple
but her body
is the house
she grew up in
and yet you have the audacity to try and burn it down?

Oh
I forgot to mention
the white paint that they used to paint over her?
yeah ... slight misunderstanding
It's permanent.

what could they expect?
it's their fault actually,
it said everything on the label
but they were too busy you see.  
Too busy to see what it was really made out of, too busy to read what made it the way it was.
Because one glance is enough, right?

One glance is enough to ask her "what did you eat today?"
And as her stomach grumbled
and her blood ate her alive,
she would answer "oh plenty!"

And you would look happy with her answer because
she is treating her body like a house she doesn't even recognize.

And you would look happy with her answer because
she let her body become your canvas

And you would look happy with her answer because
Your white paint was worth your money after all.
Hunter Shields Feb 2013
Let me paint you a picture
Using nice long strokes
And beautifully vivid colors
And as with most works of art
My muse is the tale of two lovers
Plus one, two, three
Or was it four others
I seem to have lost count
With re-occurrences and all
And their masks seem to blur
As I get lost in our thrall
I tell you love is like a sun
Beautiful to look at
But will blind you
If you stare just a little too long
Unable to see a single mistake
When everything is going wrong
So I paint over the visages
Of him, him, her, and him
But the paint is just not thick enough
How could it be?
When the stain of betrayal
Isn’t quite painted, but carved
When the knives in the back
Sink through to the heart
And while it’s true
That the color of apology
Works well as a cover-up
Only time truly hides scars
And that’s what you wanted
Wasn’t it
Was time apart?
But it’s just not right
That you got to make that call
Without even a fight
You just want to call it a night
So go ahead and sketch the dark
And I will paint the stars
Because that’s what we are
Memories mirrored in paint
From the nights
Where you cried and I kissed you
To the days
Where our phone calls
Ended with I miss you
And I know
You’re not cursed with the memory
People think I’m blessed with
So let this serve to remind you
Of when times were best and
Then maybe you’ll feel some regret
Not the kind where watercolors
Stain your perfect portrait
I’m talking about life changing emotion
So that maybe there won’t be reprints
Sold at every corner auction
I want something hung in a museum
Something people would traverse
The world to see
And when they do
They don’t know what they feel
Because it’s hard to believe
That it’s even real
Seeing love with its contrast
And how you treated it
Like a contract
Made with an expiration date
Set even since our first date
When you gave me that brush
Inspiring me to paint
So that is what I did
And this is its masterpiece
And now

I guess I need a new brush
Aria of Midnight Dec 2014
Paint the night sky with twinkling stars, distant from one another but collectively emitting a spectacular glow;
Paint the spun ivory clouds across the interminable blue, watching the softness suffocate sunlight streaming below;
Paint your frayed chocolate braids beside curved, smiling full lips in the middle of a vivid, adorned cottage;
Paint the passionate red of blood that stains our hands as they clasp together like imperfect puzzle pieces, and the jagged breathing that fogs the dusk;
Paint yourself where you are loved--
Paint yourself with me.
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.
KKM May 2014
We are born free people, yet there are always restrictions.
We choose if we want to break them, whether with facts or through fiction.
Whether on walls using diction,
Or any crawl through confliction.
And no amount of chains and barriers
Will restrain us, no contradiction.
We understand we’re not on ice,
That there’s always going to be friction.
As expressers, fighters, artists, world changers
It comes from an Italian word, meaning scratch.
Look at it again and a whole new world
Has hatched.
The term graffiti, referred to the inscriptions, figure drawings, and such, found on the walls of ancient graves or ruins, as in the Catacombs of Rome or at Pompeii. Use of the word has evolved to include any graphics applied to surfaces in a manner that constitutes vandalism.
75% of people think its vandalism.
Toronto spends one million a year on graffiti removal.
When artists get back in the game, they haven’t given their approval.
Why don’t you use that money to feed the thousands of poor in society?
Instead of worrying about the art that the citizens need to see.

I never got A’s in elementary school art.
Getting marked on art still sounds like you need to be smart.
But graffiti doesn’t have to mean anything,
Not every letter is a symbol.
There are complications too but it can also be simple.
Almost every kind that I saw on the streets
Took a soft place in my heart, eventually turned concrete.
Let me reel back to grade 10 when I actually took art courses
In the media arts classroom I was taught people as my sources
Banksy, JR, Sofles, Katsu, Kidult, Shepard Fairey.
After my first graffiti assignment I understood clearly
What would happen if you brought a spray paint can near me.
The reason for graffiti is a simple one,
Not always about rebelling, or having fun.
Every artist craves to paint in his or her own way.
And all of us have messages that need to be portrayed.
Like, I was here, I’m alive, let me leave my mark.
This city is mine too, and I want to give it my spark
I belong, I have a voice, and I crave to make a change
These walls are too voiceless when it comes to the speaking range
My love for social justice brings in political ties
Through graffiti one can tell what country thrives with lies
It gives any surface a story, makes it come alive.
Change the system if you strive, until justice is revived.
To try to help the oppressed,
The shapes and lines were mine,
But they’re the ones on the line,
And to sit and do nothing would be an even bigger crime.
I even changed my initials to KKB
The B is for Banksy, its everywhere you see me.
My email has a Banksy, my Twitter did too.
Graffiti is my life, though you already knew.
Humanity is lost within the walls that we made
Graffiti brought it back to me,
And like the ocean did I wade.
Inside the political aspect that structures our brains
And the society that gives us money to drain
All the false information and the things we don’t need
Gives me hope to find these messages written on the streets
Sometimes freedom of speech isn’t so free at all.
But if Facebook deletes posts, documentaries have biased calls,
There’s another way of speaking, even if we fall,
I love how it’s not typical; no tag is the same.
Its breathing life on the walls, not stuck in a frame.
It stands out.
Stands outside of a museum where you always have to pay.
To see something that may or may not catch your attention right away.
That makes your head sway,
Give you some kind of reaction, moves you to action.
Not something you have to think hard about,
There’s little analysis needed, a splash merrily seeded.
Its urgent, its in the moment, for realization.
Once the message has been received, it’s an artist’s confirmation.
I integrated graffiti as a part of my every day life, including school
Drew it in math projects, French presentations, writer’s craft essays, it was my arts night welcome sign tool.
I will carry this with me through university
And it’ll take me further in the arts industry.
When you walk by graffiti in the street, do you ever take the time to notice it? Like, really notice it? Do you ever think about the person behind the spray paint can? Writers are not only being underappreciated for their talents, but they’re being harassed, looked down on, all for no reason. Do you know any of their stories? Do you know what thoughts and feelings sprayed out of the can when the paint hit the wall? Do you ever think about the history behind the art? To breakdown the styles of graffiti, here’s a simple introduction. There are tags, the simplest forms of graffiti. A signature. There are stencils. There are stickers, also known as slaps. Wildstyles are also used, and they’re more intricate, more colourful, and harder to read. It’s a particular style of writing developed in New York City. A piece is one that takes time an effort, and requires more than three colours. A blockbuster is used to cover the most space in the least amount of time. And a heaven is a piece that’s put in a hard to reach area, like the tops of tall buildings or on freeway signs. There’s the style bubble, old school, brush, abstract, bombings, whole car, ignorant, landscape, realistic, billboard, cartoon and sharp as well.
A sense of tranquility seeps into my veins every time my marker hits the paper, full of energy, full of hope. Starting graffiti was a way to combine my passion for speaking out against oppression and my love for the arts. Even though my work is not displayed on the streets, it has the same style, and it may not have the same effect but it counts as an escape for me. It doesn’t make me a graffiti artist, and some would even argue that doing canvas work kills the purpose of graffiti but I always want my work to make an impact on people no matter which way I do it. It’s something I love to do, and anyone can take that any way they desire. There are stereotypes that I’ve had to battle, but in the end, I know my true intentions. I don’t need to make a name for myself. I don’t need to create a reputation for myself either. True, this is not real graffiti, but that’s as far as I choose to take my fascination. I do it because of the escape it provides for me, the sense of freedom, and the sense of power in my markers.
These are the little movements of writers, all of us trying to get at revolution. Art is not supposed to be limited in frames. That’s why to me, the streets are some of the biggest forms of freedom – do as much as you like, however you like, all free. The poor and rich all have to see it. No one can avoid the message. It is not only artistic expression; it’s a protest. A scream of anger and emotion aimed towards public spaces. Graffiti artists did not start the war, they just respond to defend our vision of what graffiti and society should be: free. A battle against commercialism and a way of saying ‘no’ to materialism and society’s over consumption.  To the government, you are not the only ones who own these cities. What about the rest of us that do not exist until we leave a mark of our own? This is a game of action and reaction, if you will.
Taking care of our society is our obligation. That means changing anything harmful to us with every mean possible. Graffiti seems to offend a majority of society but if we took the time to appreciate and understand, a lot of good can be done if we turned the negatives into positives. So if we aimed for change and acted on it, especially with art, we’d be much less stressed. More often, we’d just remember, to stay blessed.
an assignment for a writers class. i made a video, but this is the word version (:
Larry B Dec 2010
Paint me a picture and make it smile
Help me see through my pain
No more words from broken hearts
Or tears that fall like rain

Paint me a picture of a moonlit lake
Or love birds singing their song
No more cheating or lying words
Or doing somebody wrong

Paint me a picture of love's first kiss
Or two people holding hands
No more stories of broken promises
Or senseless one night stands

Paint me a picture of happy endings
Or of death until they part
No more stories of dying young
That tears my heart apart

Paint me a picture as poet's do
Like only you can tell
Paint me a picture to let me know
That in your heart, all is well


© All Rights Reserved
Life's a Beach Jan 2014
If I had to
I would paint him like this;
His hair thick streaks, shielding
Hidden face, arms placed protectively
about a shield of strings, his
fingers float out joy.
My Boy
Lies immersed in his own
Invisible sound,
Happiness hidden, and found,
Underground.
Silence Sings Out Loud.

I would paint him like this.

If I had to
I would paint her like this;
Her hair tangled in a golden kiss
against the mischief of her
face, all sorrow erased
by half moons of mirth
Hands of Nurture placed
deep in the Earth.
In stability she is
free, in life
she is re-born,
eternally stubborn.

I would paint her like this.

If I had to
I would paint them like this;
Colours clashing to complete
the cadbury brown of hair,
Blue and Red swirling and
stairing their way down
to Purple.
If I were to paint them, I'd
create a staple of
a third and final
canvas.

Both Him & Her,
Boy and Girl,
complete
_ _
This is their
similarity.
Cné Jun 2018

paint me
with the wet tickle
of your tongue
lingering with affection
savoring my fervent flavor
in bold strokes
of your obsession

color my essence
in heated hues
sending shivers
down my spine
in anticipation
of your warm breath
against my flesh
with every blissful caress
to ensue painted petals
of animation

with your supple lips
gently blur the lines
of my curved hips
softly stroking
the subtle shadows
of warm depth,
blushing
quivering thighs
as I gasp
of breath

plunge in
a primer coated palette
dipping your stiff paintbrush
deep within
the folds of my blanket
manipulating
a trembling image
of your voracious lust.

craze me
again and again
in breathless
****** glow,
your sensual brushstrokes
gently murmuring
layer on layer
in alla prima flow

delve deep
into my eyes
paint splattering
the passion
of my soul
drizzling silken strands
of love
in their entirety,
polishing me whole

and then
in blissful backwash
admire
the tangled limbs
interposed
of your
completed masterpiece
in smiling
sated repose

— The End —