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Cress Rosario May 2014
Brushes and paints can do a lot of pictures
Images inside his head that was once captured
It can speak for a million of smiles
It can reveal us thousands of lies

Even paintings has its own secrets
Hid by the one who passionately paints it
If we could dive through that canvas
We would know the story he wants to tell us
As an artist and a painter, I want to know unseen stories inside every painters hid in their works. We paint for a reason. It's either we are inspired, hurt, thinking too much, fantasize of something, delighted, or we want to wake up the world.
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 ****.

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

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.
Cné Nov 2017
Rise and shine, first thing in the morning walking past the mirror.
Avoiding its reflection, not wanting to see its reflective picture.
Kneeling in the shower, hands pressed tightly to her ribs.  
Who is this frightened child?  Does she even exist?  
She took a step back from the world, no one knew she was alive.  
Now she’s grasping at her life, just trying to survive.
A tainted childhood in shame now fragile bones from self abuse,
don’t blame her though, she was only a child confused.  
How did this happen?  When did this begin?  
She seemed so happy, or was that all pretend?  
She had started at 130, or so,
but felt as if she had lost control.
What happened to this dear sweet innocent child?  
Her idea of beauty and perfection had driven her wild.
Minus 25 later she was so close.  
Almost 100 without any clothes.  
No one would touch her, they thought she would break.  
She told herself she was content with that trade.
I was 18.
~
I’m much better now in my adult discipline
eating healthy 3 meals a day purely for consumption.  
Yesterday, I skipped dinner in lieu of drinking wine.
Today at noon, hovering over my breakfast, I resign
Some days I struggle. Some days I am not fine.
But ...
I will eat my breakfast, lunch and dinner.
And paint my pretty pictures.
This was a therapeutic write.
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2017
Sometimes the day smiles
shows me its colour.
No, then the wild blue yonder
doesn’t look to be far
I feel like I got the wings to fly.

But who would sway away
when the rose under the nose
floating on a sea of colour?

The luminary punter too
drops down from the sky.
Paints the broad daylight
as it sails down on its silky way.

Ah, the southern breeze
bends with the rose of the day
peeps in the colour before my eyes.
I could only see missing my butterfly.
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
Hidden within the earthy depth
only emerges with time
only dances in tangent
now slips out with the butterflies.  
Now the nightingales singing aloud!

One has spoken out, one blew
a kiss out off the dark seed.
Ah, what then broke through?
Up from the sky the blue-nymph  
dropped down on the scene!
One that hid blurring that's image
on the mirror is that now been seen?

Pouring rain singing down to primulas
paints it with all the colours of the wind
now the Spring picked up her paintbrush.

Rain some colour blow a kiss of the flower
paint it out of the mirror!
E Aug 2018
Live in poetry
Hold unto novelty
Never settle
Never just be
**** being Content
Sadness, emptiness, happiness, despair, love, hatred, wonder
They are all colours
Why paint in black and white when you've got the whole
spectrum?
Feel.
Mark Thompson Nov 2014
Oil paints...what a ******
    My mistake
A spill on canvas
          I wipe and wipe to fix the "inspiration"
Before I know my eyes are fixed and fixed on...nothing

The painting's gone, my over thought of simple things
Has stormed again and taken from me
      That that I saw, and saw as a need

A force so convincing
Has broken,
shock! and gone a splintering

  And now
In wide eyed amazement
I stare at beauty staring back at me
From a chance meant
  To be
A happy accident

A smile

Relief
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2018
Painting shades of blue
the tinted clouds
over the rainbow
jumped away.

Now it's a diving black swan
somewhere down the all
clear lapis lazuli blue sky.

Only one is left behind
wish I was with my butterfly!
Lizzy Jul 2015
I swing my sword
At the monster inside me.
But the blade has been blunted,
It's dull and cannot ****.
What is a warrior without her sword?
Joan of Arc without her horse?

Stripped of my valor,
In the middle of war.
I do not have the means to fight anymore.
Left bare to the sun.
Where arrows can pierce
And daggers can jab.

Trying to create an image,
Which seemed so vivid before.
All my paint is dull
And all my canvas broken.
What is an artist without his brush?
Van Gogh without his hands?

The pain he must feel
When losing his only muse.
He lives through art,
So dies if he cannot paint.
I live through words,
I die if I cannot write.

Now god you've taken my legs.
How do I live,
When I cannot stand.
I fear I've lost my only light.
I fear I'm out of muse.
With nothing more to say.

Like a warrior without her sword.
Van Gogh without his hands.
My words are my legs,
And I cannot stand.
Gerry James Jul 2018
What is Poetry?
When your legs are numb,
Blood parching in your veins,
Throat choking from the pain,
And the fingers hitting the keys of the keyboard ceaselessly,
Trying ever so hard to create something impetuously,
Its poetry, you type.

When you dream of the possibilities,
And in what was once unimaginable,
You make the reader believe,
And change the way how their life, they perceive,
Its poetry, you dream.

When you play with words,
Just as an artist would play with colors,
To create a masterpiece,
That reaches the depths of the reader’s soul,
And burns them inside like coal,
Its poetry, you paint.

When you thread
Your fears, your desires,
Your insecurities, your pain,
All just to stay sane,
Its poetry you weave.

When your heart is melting
Like wax candles once lit,
And drops of tears smudge the ink,
To your knees you sink,
Its poetry, you bleed.
To all those out there who just enjoy painting their dreams with words that make it all seem so much more meaningful.
Llila Jul 2016
The future is a blur of smudged paint
Dragged across the canvas by inexperienced shaking hands
They tell me it is beautiful
But I can only see the mess that I have made
The sickly brown smeared across my palms that however hard I try
I cannot wash away

I cannot dream in future vision
I cannot slip those time traveler lenses over my eyes
I cannot see the ultraviolet, only the ultra-violent
And I bleed away my worries in words that no one shall ever read
And I scream away my sorrows in voices that never belonged to me

The future is a daydream,
Bright skies and gentle waves
That wash away my purple fingertips
And yet when I dream of my own
Those waves become polluted, the sky falls upon the crashing waves
Drowning my fingertips in their suffocating embrace and tightening the nooses on my toes

My future is non-existent
It is late night conversation to keep the day away a little longer
It is glances through crowds of people who, like you and I, will die eventually
It is your face breaking apart with a smile that expels so much light- so much goodness
My future is a daydream, a night dream and all the in-between
My future is the terrifying unknown

My future is sitting at bus stops waiting for a taxi
And knowing that it will never come
But waiting anyway just so that I can watch the sunset
It is snow storms and rainy days
It is running barefoot through a field with no real direction
It is counting the stars at midday

I tell myself that my future is non-existent
And yet
It is so full and so bright
It may not last forever
And I will die, as will you.
But this moment
This is the future.
This is rolling skies and glittering streams.
It is streetlamps that never seem to turn off
And streets that I don't yet know the names of.

My future is a blur of smudged paint
And though it may not be clear or simple
It is wonderful and it is mine.
This one is pretty awful but here it is
Silverflame Nov 2018
The love you paint in my heart,
looks more like vandalism than art.
lifeonLSD Oct 2018
Take the pain and paint it
into anything you can imagine

Paint until each drop
represents the tears you shed

Paint until each ****** represents every
touch you erase from your memory

Paint until each color on your plate
represents the blood that bleeds from your heart

Paint as if you can take every last
bit of it and pour it out on canvas

Paint as you are the only who can put it into picture and turn it into
the beauty that holds it all in place
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as Fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.

The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.

Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.  
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.

Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Autumn Quatern.

All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
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.
Stu Harley Oct 2018
upon
the
holy waters of Galilee
where
faith
painted
her
portrait there
and
i
feel her gentle breeze
LAICEY Aug 2017
Our every word that comes out
has the potential to **** when
your seemingly fragile but villainous
lips caresses my weaponed tongue
encouraging the venomous noise to be
reborn again and again.
Soft yet viscious touch.
I demand for more.
I urge for attention.

Patience is running thin!

I never even looked away from the
light in your eyes
but you were watching my entire flesh
rot in the colours you gave me.
Dead.
When you left, all went dark
for the light in your eyes were just
fires that burned too bright
and couldn't last.
It was then
when I was standing all alone
in the black hole you helped me create,
the one that ****** away everything I loved,
I realized that I was colourblind,
that your touch and your words
were bleach that sunk into my core,
leaving me only in black and white.
~ part 2 ~
this is the second half of a two-piece poem,
this is how the masterpiece ends.

"Masterpiece" and "Colourless" can be read as two entirely separate poems, however, they were originally written all in one poem but due to further alterations, they were suited to be split in two.
© 2015/17 August LAICEY Poems
Shofi Ahmed Jun 2017
Picture yours, put it out
to your kaleidoscope.
Like the day at the full-blown noon
or the night on the cheek of the moon
a flame burning on the underlying dark
a dawn switches on the first light
a sun comes out of the night.
Visualise your latent one
put it on before your mirror!

Princely give the eyeballs a designer treat.
Paint your masterpiece at the day’s peep.
Hook the browsers at their first click.
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Open your heart paint your dream.
Do it in the broad daylight,
it’s your colour scheme.  
If the twilight falls on your colour plate
before you’re done painting the noon,
keep drawing down the moon!

Breakthrough at the first light.
No sunrise is any bird’s sleeping pillow.
They are on their wings, out and tweeting,
singing on the past night’s dreamscene.

Any of the fair duo, the Sun or the Moon,
sleek sunny golden or the silver line,
neither one of those can you catch.
They know their science  
like you count your time.

You can set your mind any time,
pick any number to count your time,
but you won’t have the last one.
There isn’t one, the mind is spotless fine.
But if the solar-lunar duo can count the last:
ask them to stop the time.  

Be truthful as you speak.
Open the heart into your eloquent word.
Never think you are alone, you are
complete with the complete world!
Elena Dec 2018
Turning table of bare skin and plaster
Sitting model of perfections mastered
Brushing every layer on blank sheets
Watering eyes for moisture in basking heat

Now cry those pictures prettier than me
Wash away what flaws replay then flee
Creating beauty; an authentic frisson
Until the truth is unmasked to glisten

Strokes of warmth into lustrous mellow
Let me shine then fade a sweeter yellow
Add finishing touches on the drying husk
Then marvel at the paint of dawn to dusk.
Shofi Ahmed Jun 2017
Looking at the
         satellite picture
                    it looks clear.
                       The earth is a blue
                                  drop of water!

                                    Did the sun paint
                 the shades of this blue dew
            dot years.
       Still, the ****** shines
   in same old
unfading colour!
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