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The scalpel is much like the pen,
In the hands of caring & skilled surgeons.

Tuna, Sturgeon, Trout.

If you loosed a seam
Stitch it or cauterize it - heal it,
Otherwise it's all down-stream.

If you offend,
Make right by making amends;
You are stricken by lightning.

If you misrepresent,
Apologize & correct your error by proper interpretation
Or to the caves be sent!


Judge not the judges,
For you are one & this inclination is only a natural one,
Lest you receive an unjust verdict.
Hermes - Lineage of Hades, but son of Zeus.

Tuna, Sturgeon, Trout - "Placeholders"
Feyre Jul 9
i am a museum of my own creation.
the parts of myself exhibited to the public
are moulded, polished, photographed,
whilst the rest of me lays
dusty and forgotten.

how can anyone ever truly know me
when i am only
a moment, a picture, a fleeting idea
encapsulated as a whole?

but none of it is real.
and if it's all falsehood,
then what am I?
in a world surrounded by people, you are entirely alone.
Arpitha Jul 7
Art
Medley of patterns
Flow onto the paper
Sorting through the mess
That is my head

Colors dance on the sheet
Never skipping a beat
Both Performing for me
And speaking for me

Feelings reborn in hues
Color and colourless
Let them flow
Together let’s grow
I love drawing mandalas
Yuzuko Jun 21
The soft soothing sound of fire within
The calming of the night and air
The breeze of affection when I see your grin
It’s a beautiful thing, and makes me care

Your voice is that can’t simply be ignored
The truth you speak has impacted me
I truly admire you like an award.
Just your presence is enough to make me glee

The love goes beyond words of heart
To stars that sit among us
This is truly a piece of art
Not even words would discuss

You’ve seen my scars and sin
But your still here
I must thank you for being my lens
You’ve stayed though it all my dear
MetaVerse Jul 4
ınk a new line that drips upon a page;
poetry plays a point that letters spell.
when feet are running meter's rhyme and rage
the poet writes of love that's worth the tell.
a statement made of stanzas rings a bell
in ears that crave the rhythm of a verse
rehears'd in dulcet tones that maybe yell
at times when feeling love is but a curse.
volta Velveeta cheese an early hearse
and bathroom book of verses by anon.
musical fruits smell better smelling worse:
if music be the food of loveplay on.
     in octaves, sevenths, sixths, fifths, fourths, and thirds,
     poesy *****-footing plays with words.
I wanna eat your *****
I wanna die tonight
I wanna get wasted
I wanna start a fight
I wanna go to jail
I wanna get paid
I wanna **** your mom
I want retards to get laid
**** politics
**** words
I want to *******
To pictures of worms
I want to see Diddy get ******
I wanna see Sara Palin ****
I wanna light a smoke with Obama
I want a **** that’s ******* huge
I wanna do drugs
I wanna go insane
I wanna chill with Charlie sheen
And do a bunch of *******
I wanna streak in Area 51
So aliens can grow my ****
I wanna spit off the Eiffel Tower
Drink until I’m ******* sick
But all I’ll ever do
Is write this stupid poem
Maybe if I drink enough
I’ll die on the way home
God might love you!
Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.
the art of conversation is lost on me...
CAROUSEL
In my Ferris wheel, spinning, turning,
in life's madness,
in art.
The art of drawing out days,
the art of surviving ourselves.
Stories,
between silver and gold, by day and by night.
Turning through life,
observing.
Looking without seeing, at times.
Unraveling tangled chains,
Between lines and curves,
creating,
those days,
passionate,
navigating,
through the air,
drowned,
in the sea,
blood,
rivers,
giving,
that art,
from here,
from there.
Art,
my art,
your art,
all,
or
nothing,
to flow.
In everything,
your art,
reflections,
of life,
recreating.
In my Ferris wheel,
sometimes I fall,
dizzy,
giving,
everything,
I believe,
divine,
human,
reflections,
creation.
Without a net,
loose,
my art.
That thing,
so mine,
without success,
without fear
to be brilliant,
to be nothing,
it all matters not,
to create for creation's sake.
I drown,
each day,
I breathe,
from worse,
to worse,
despite,
I cast art,
those lines,
that I spit.
With blood,
sometimes water,
salt from my sea.
For no one,
for me,
I play,
I spin,
I turn,
within me,
dizzy,
on my carousel,
that which inspires,
that which kills me.
Giving everything,
on the edge,
of everything,
or almost,
art,
mine,
endless.
unreal,
or real,
unlimited.
Breathless,
pure image,
imagination,
overflowing,
drowned,
in Art.
it kills me,
not to give
everything,
endlessly.
Carousel,
circular,
of light,
within me,
unique,
endless,
despite,
my end.
Creating
life in you,
immaterial,
poisoning,
with art your life.
Create your dreaming,
in your Ferris wheel.
carousel,
of your life

CARRUSEL
En mi noria, girando, dando vueltas,

en la locura de la vida,

en el arte.

Arte de ir tirando días,

arte de sobrevivir a nosotros mismos.

Historias,

entre la plata y el oro, de día y de noche.

Dando vueltas por la vida,

observando.

Mirando sin ver a veces.

Deshaciendo los ovillos de las cadenas,

Entre líneas y curvas,

creando,

esos días,

apasionados,

navegando,

por el aire,

ahogados,

en la mar,

sangre,

ríos,

dando,

ese arte,

de aquí,

de allá.

Arte,

mi arte,

tu arte,

todo,

o

nada,

fluir.

En todo,

tu arte,

reflejos,

de la vida,

recreando.

En mi noria,

a veces caigo,

mareado,

dando,

todo,

Creo,

divino,

humano,

reflejos,

creación.

Sin red,

suelto,

mi arte.

Esa cosa,

tan mía,

sin éxito,

sin miedo

a ser genial,

a no ser nada,

da igual todo,

crear por crear.

Me ahogo,

cada día,

respiro,

de peor,

en peor,

a pesar,

tiro arte,

esas líneas,

que escupo.

Con sangre,

a veces agua,

sal de mi mar.

Para nadie,

para mí,

juego,

giro,

vueltas,

en mí,

mareado,

en mi carrusel,

ese que inspira,

ese que me mata.

Dando todo,

en el borde,

de todo,

o casi,

arte,

mío,

sin fin.

irreal,

o real,

ilimitado

Sin aliento,

pura imagen,

imaginación,

desbordante,

ahogado,

en Arte

me mata,

no dar

todo,

sin fin.

Carrusel,

circular,

de luz,

en mí,

único,

sin fin,

a pesar,

de mi fin.

Creando

vida en ti,

inmaterial,

envenenando,

con arte tu vida.

Crea tu soñar,

en tu noria.

carrusel,

de tu vida.
dee Jun 30
You are indeed art.
Something I can not add on to
due to you already wielding the energy
that is so deathly breathtaking.
My eyes stretch to see as far as your soul.
I’ll never get close enough to touch the colors that perfectly line into your being.
It’s more than awareness of your existence.
nothing is perfect
but what soothed me was your completeness.
You are whole.
He is art.
The only thing to depict you, for art is the only thing I can love from a distance and now so are you.
You are indeed art.
From possession to perception.
Commitment to acceptance.
Grasping to gazing.
Wholeness. Admiration. Art.
goodbye
Cné Jun 30
Blessed hands that held the brush so fine,
Spoke of stories yet untold in line.
Fingers that danced with vibrant hue,
Whispered secrets, as the canvas grew.

With every stroke, a tale unfolded,
Of passion, fire, and emotions bold.
The hands that painted, spoke of love,
As colors merged, sent from above.

In gentle touch, they shared a sigh,
As petals bloomed, and sunsets lit the sky.
With firm grasp, they told of might,
As mountains rose, and night descended bright.

The artist's hands, a language true,
Spoke of dreams, and all they'd do.
If you let them, they'd tell their tale,
Of beauty born, and emotions unveiled.

Their whispers echoed, as the art took shape,
A symphony of color, a heartfelt escape.
The hands that painted, spoke of soul,
A language universal, making us whole.
I love to paint because I lose myself to it. I surrender all thoughts and just create. When I finish I step back and look at what I created.
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