"pallete" poems
For her art was all the colors,
Present in the makeup pallete,
Erasing her pain like cleansers,
And making her life go all set,
So ready to be brushed up with some makeup,
To meet with her all time pain healer,
By letting her face go through a little scrub,
She covered all the dark secrets like a concealer,
She had a past darker than her smokey eyes,
With eyeshadow blended so perfectly,
She looked so pretty and wise,
Killing people with her charm and spectacularity,
By using her lipstick dipped in blood red,
And like a sharp weapon she carried her contoured face, With her lashes so widespread,
She turned into a strong woman who got over all her depressing days.
-Faeza Kazim
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
I dipped a woodlouse in the ink
I set it on the page
Watched it craft fine works of art
I was stunned, so amazed by the words that flowed
I's and oh's there in repose as that louse moved its feet
None here could write with such delight
Such a one word piece of art
And so I set a color pallete down
Watched it work throughout the night
Oh, oh such a glorious work evolved
Of color tint and hue
A work so crafted, so wonderful
That could be challenged by so few
And upon that work of wonder
A one word poem grew
And all this by a woodlouse
Using six legs instead of two
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Drip drip drop
The sky cries.
Shades of greys and blues
Neutral flat a little bit sad
But true.
Like all the stories you hide
beneath faint soft yellow
But blue can only be covered with red
Drip drop drip drop drip drops
It gets faster and violent my child heart beats.
Rhyming with your giggles and pronunciation of what used to be my name
Now a soothing sound like the rain praying for longing souls
My god I pray **** that love in me
Drip drip drop
The melody slows down.
The pallete reveals a hint of blue
Will you show me some color too?
Perhaps it's time to leave.
I could never bear grey for long
It's becoming dull and gloomy this song
Drip drop
I wave goodbye until my lover returns
Prayers are answered, souls are rested.
Tears are sweet
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC
White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern
When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue
The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves
She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor
Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck
She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress
In the bookshelf,
Behind easels, pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table
A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her
Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness
Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden
Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as
She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors
Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show
Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around
I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws
All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay
Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world
Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 10:55 AM UTC
the hint of yellow
circling the pupils of your blue eyes
are like garden flowers on a window
by the eden on a front yard.
i guess they caught whatever was left
from the pallete spent on your golden hair
the blush of red in your cheeks
when your lips part in passion
is the color of the day surrendering into the night
lit up by a million tiny sparkles
and yes, the mole on your nose bridge
rests like venus on a crescent moon.
the softness of your white skin
forms a blanket with warm pockets,
love escaping from my embrace.
i hear your hands speak of strength
there are areas on it roughened by life
and soft spots that bring a vision
of a little girl playing hopscotch.
and when i rest my palm on yours
the world is alright with me.
i am momentarily lost
tracking the rise and fall of your chest
somehow i could make out your heart
dancing in there, in double step
perfectly in synch with mine
i want to remember every line
every shade, every tone,
every rhythm that compose you
like an ancient god's little toy.
your breath becomes mine
like brooks into rivers into seas
you are upon me
like wildebeasts in stampede
the crash of a mighty jungle waterfall
so many pictures flood my senses
my mind convulsing in a frenzy
from a spark provoked by your face
you are a mine for my metaphors
and i just sit here, ready
my pen poised, my cup is eager
the smell of coffee rises up my veins
i let you come in,open my door
your touch is on my skin
your footprints are all over my body
i cannot move a part of me
without moving the whole of us.
my ache to have you is unending
my devotion is timeless
our moment together too priceless
if i was put in this world to love you
and meant to die when that is done,
then beloved,
i believe i will live forever.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 4:21 AM UTC
Art was religion’s enemy, but nobody knew it.
Ignorance’s persecution and deception’s excommunication
are invisible marks stamped onto every wooden pallete.
What with the saints’ every feature executed with the finest human touches,
it’s divinity could not be more countoured and highlighted.
The bold kisses of sunlight onto the walls of the cathedrals
remind tense shoulders and pointed slippers how much they are adored by the universe..
while they, not as much so.
God’s fingerprints are engraved onto every human brain
for the mind is powerful enough to imagine
vast forests and fine cloth,
sweet wine and golden crusts of bread,
cherry lips and tamed silver hairs,
the softest pillows for varnished beds,
herds of sheep and gallops of mares.
The artist is glorified, admired and lusted for the deceptions it’s brushes could print onto textured paper.
Perhaps heaven’s mess sent graciously upon wiked ground,
unfertile for carrying the growth of who is gripping too lightly on the artist’s border for beauty,
were the wrong tones of purple, blue, red, yellow, or brown.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
*You paint a perfect picture.
Full of firey reds
and deepest blue.
A sprinkle of gold
adds the final touch
to this masterpiece of 'you.'
But I've learned my lessons well.
Between the brush strokes,
the color choices,
the vibrant subject,
and opinionated voices.
A deeper inspection finds
a glaring exception.
The missing shadows
and darkened hues.
A blackened soul conveniently
hidden from view.
Deliberate?
Most likely.
Deceit is your brush,
vivid lies fill your pallete.
A habit common among
those whos veneer
is as thin as your canvas.
~~~*
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
It's raining outside,
while I'm right here,
thinking of you,
wanting you by my side,
like the raindrops trailing by,
in a pattern that somewhat,
falls into the blue of your eyes.
The colors that I could see,
washed away at once,
some shades of the fragrance,
on the pallete of my dreams,
to add another colour of love,
while it passes in a single gleen,
before closing the sky to our last 'love scene'.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Monsters are depicted one dimensionally
Paintings illustrate the difficult decisions
This is the observer's farce
Blood on one's hands paint the canvas
Fingers comb through the valleys
Defining the geography of pain
Trauma sets in, and out goes precision
Distorting one image to reflect another
A change is needed in perspective's pallete
Hands soak to wash away the day view
The crimson stain nevers leaves,
Vibrant ideas left to wade in the murkiness
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
I fumble for my next dose
Blue chalky circles spill
Onto white linoleum
Clicking for every lost meal
Bounce like My shaky hands
No interest in obeying
Nobody ever stopped asking for an answer.
My first vice
Dependant on malnutrition
addiction, in fear
fists coming down, off the high.
there is no such thing as a familiar crash
Always a new drug.
hands struggle without muscle
We shake together.
Indulged in recall
Dissolved in water.
I sometimes feel bad for my first upper
Too quick to cheat
Carbonated me fat
Made my teeth fall out
Drew me into television
Tom and Jerry became my bedtime
I gorged myself on escapism.
After a seisure I would regret that much of this new drug.
I ration just enough
She forces my shaky hand
Insist I never talk to her while the show is on
the show is everything.
a vacuum, dusty room, spotless television
There is never a crash.
Only crippling mania
I won't **** this new addiction..
Her absence is a gateway to new powders
this Killing drug gave me the power to stop craving more.
There is closure in calling a poison by it's first name.
We call ourselves poison from the very beginning.
the little blue pills are my escapists cure.
I always go back to coffee
kept warm, by an indulgence I can hold around family.
I've a curious tongue, an educated pallete.
Seven years slinging uppers, black.
Before I learned how to read a clock
All I wanted was for it to snow
In maine, I'm skeptical when not frozen.
If I made a snow angel, I would never come down.
Snow makes beautiful quicksand.
It's hard to inhale when drowning.
I am also more likely to expand my pallete on oxygen alternatives when drowning.
The ocean has infectious curiousity
Sirens dwell there for a reason.
if I had a boat.
I wouldn't make it past the poppys
Thankfully, I do not have a boat.
Only weak Coffee
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 6:28 AM UTC
I was sitting in my porch
Forgot that dreams run on roads
I'm a withering flower
My bloom has not started;
yet it ended so soon
And the lines of the years
were drawn on my face
I believe that it is not too late
But what else can I add on this pallete
Age added up, my friend
I am just beginning to realize
That all people who I'm with
are all walking ahead of me
I wish I had took the first step
When it was needed long ago
Wish me luck on my journey
Maybe, I will not be able to climb mountains anymore
But what matters most,
is that I walked with those who are behind me before
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
her brush strokes
erupt on the page
leaving a fury of colors in its trail.
singing songs of feeling
of emotion
and rage
when the bristles
are close to withering out
it's voice grows raspy and pained
so it returns to its home:
familiar,
nourishing,
and chaotic
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
What's revenge,
If not a kiss
Who's pallete ranges, from sweet
To bitter.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC
i don't quite know
how possible it
is to psychoanalyze yourself
to figure out the tender reasons
why you place people so
delicately on your plate
making sure the mashed potato
man and baby corned tooth
woman don't touch
like sticking a fork in
yourself trying to
pull out how she
made you feel
in 6 words or less
the language gettting
muddled like word salad
that only you can understand
eating and loving
becoming synonymous
like you asking me if
i (still) love you
and drowning my
chicken in the fiercest
bbq sauce
it's fleshy white
skin
crying out like
a blemish
on history with
no take-backs
like using
every condiment
and coping mechanism
trying to cleanse
my pallete of
you
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
see the vacant echoes from the throats of those before us
that is I
envision the spirits wandering through the filaments of broken bones
that is I
listen to the whispers of mistaken secrets shared between distant lovers
that is I
hear the thunder, the sighs of a coral reef, laughing on the wind
that is I
feel the stone and its roots that bind us together
that is I
grasp the ripped parchment of deceased ideas
that is I
smell the tincture of blood, sweat, and tears
that is I
inhale every molecule of vivacious flowers made of sweet nothings
that is I
taste the salt of the sea on a pallete of rice, seaweed, and fish
that is I
crumble the words I have written and swish them in your mouth
that is I
I am something made through nothing
that is all
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
Every sunset narrates a story
About the day that passed by beautifully or had some worry
As the sun decides to set
The sky above just rets
To look like beautiful pallete with a mix of all hues
A little bit of pink, white, orange, yellow and blue.
The radiant beauty which cannot be looked upon at noon
Soothes your eyes now just like a festoon
The dim golden light drives all the species to their nest
Making them a little tired and urging to take rest
So that they are ready for the next day,
To fulfill the duties that comes their way.
Always smile at this orange beauty when it is disappearing from the sky,
Coz it indicates that you my friend survived another day without a wry!!
~Taniya Mishra
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
Absence.
Reminiscent of
Wholesome tastes.
A pallete delayed
By coy pastel paints.
Reluctant to
Show true colour, faint.
Canvas lay blank
In furious haste.
Smeared in the grey
Spectrum of fate.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
"Gratitude is the attitude,"
the fat priest said,
as he was getting ready
to spready his leggies for you.
He was tryin' to
sum up a hymn 'r two
before he finished suckin'
yer cryin' cockatoo
and I don't have to tell you
that it wasn't nice, dude!
'Cause well, you weren't singin' like you used to,
or how he wanted you to, you bad boy you are
confused and forgiven but no longer can you feel innocent,
you're a sinner you ARE a sinner, and He MADE you that way,
in His image he MOLDED the clay, NO! Not 'He'!
Everyone. Every single one.
You.
**** the use of these patriarchal pronouns in reference to The Great Spore Spitting Blossoming Mushroom Flower that we're all giving birth to and dying from simultaneously and, seriously, I'm a little bit tired of these petty **** terms with which we're supposed to identify each other. You can't define my identity with your silly communication system, that's an internal state that I externalize on command and sometimes not! Sometimes it just comes out, but it NEVER comes from the devil's mouth, unless it's my own **** devil. Give me a new ******* pallete. I pray for a sensitive tongue.
For God's sake we make ourselves and we make each other.
For God's sake if we make ourselves out to be failures, then we are making God a failure, and what's that? Laaame! But what's That?! What's that I feel? Is that some discomfort with the usage of the word 'God'? Is that a lingering connotation from the days of THIS IS WHAT GOD IS, nothing else, NOTHING else? Well **** that too! That's an endless maze you won't find your way out of until you scale the walls! SCALE THE WALLS! I make God in my own image, but I don't OWN the image. You've gotta BE the God you want in this world. Sometimes I do it when I showah 'cause I have the powah. Sometimes I do it when I'm chillin' with the great lake spirit and the great tree dendritic spirit cilia that reach up and out of Gaia like loving arms awaiting a tender embrace from a lover after years of reaching for something that cannot hold them but truly must be BEHELD. And so I learned they are always beholding as they reach.
That there's always more to behold.
And so that's why they grow.
So that's why we go,
it's why we flow.
So let's make it a collaboration.
Let's make it a celebration!
We can behold it all forever.
We can behold it all together!
Well, sometimes. Not always.
We all need space, y'know?
It's healthy.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
i ate
my weight
ten times over ten
all green leaves.
now i encase
my fat body's face
in chrysalis
and
become, soupy,
torturous bliss
awaiting wing-ed
grace.
i awake
and crack the
membrane
crawl dishrag damp
out into summer's
kind light
and slowly
spread my wings.
please,
do not think
me vain.
but as i await
my wings to dry
and the glorious dust
to set.
i wonder at the ironic beauty,
that i, the fat catterpillar,
has become,so fine
and delicate,
an exquisite pallete upon
the canvas sky....
i take flight and find
freedom....
is a state mind
that flits upon the wind
and knows,
dfrom the beginning
beauty is always
from within.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
Yes, write me a poem
About autumn leaves drifting on the wind
About snowflakes settling on your eyelids
Maybe about the gentle spring rain
Or walking by the crystal stream on a bright summers day
Take me back to your childhood
Of days spent in a tent
Of walks in meadows
Resplendent with the artists pallete of color
Take me into that forest where the birds so freely sing
Take me into a world of make believe
Of fairies and dragons
Of mermaids haunting songs floating across the sea
Yes, take me to those places, those beautiful things
Please don't take me to doom and despair
Of suicidal feelings
Oh my girlfriend/boy friend of three days has left me
I can't live without him/her
Don't give me feelings of deep depression
I'm not a phsychiatrist so I can't help you
Just give me poetry
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
pain a color of million shades
yes, i have worn a few
some tints darker, some light
some old, some new
i was empty in the beginning
but realised something so true
and as the pictures started forming
life is not all that blue
pick the colors in the pallete
that make a picture so true of you
you have just one canvas
before you bid adieu
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
My eyes are gray,
My skin is white,
My wrists leak red.
The color's draining fast,
From me to you,
I don't paint the town,
Instead I paint you.
Blue becomes purple,
Green turns yellow.
I've got my pallete,
The colors of my wind.
Now I'm soaring,
Flying above,
As you call out from below.
Yelling,
"It wasn't your time to go."
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
#*Painting
Abstract
Dull
Bright
Colours
Grey
The pallete
Held many
Choose
As you please
Just paint
Your thoughts*#
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 2:52 AM UTC