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Emiline Apr 2017
National WWII museum,
New Orleans,
summer.

Somehow
we have ended up here.

1,387 miles from home.

Here,
where war is so close
yet so far away.

I look at this boy
and for a moment
I swear his smile looks just like v-day.

And his laugh sounds like peace.

And when he calls my name through this crowd,
It feels just like a homecoming.
I didn't intend to not post any poems these last two months.

Back in February, I made a promise to myself to write a little bit every day  (even if it's terrible). And surprisingly, only two-and-halfish poems came out of it. I'm been writing a novel that may never be published, but I write anyway. Knowing that writing shouldn't be about publication, even though it would be nice. So, while I brush up those two-and-a-halfish poems, here's a short little something that I wrote in the gift shop at the National World War II museum about a very innocent and hopeful crush.
Tom Mach Mar 2017
O Calliope, muse
of epic poetry
and Erato, seducer
of love poems,
do ye know about
the pains of life
or about the
tremors of the soul itself?
perhaps not.
then where shall i find the true museum muse,
that marvelous explorer of the
labyrinth of life exhibits?
if i discover him
will he reveal to me love held and love released?
will he then disclose to me
the pain, pride, and promise of my existence?
will he flash memories affixed in my heart?
which tomb, then, do i want to unearth?
or am i careless or timid when deciding
which episodes i want others to see and
which i hope to bury?
Taken from The Museum Muse by Tom Mach
kerri Jan 2017
we were stopped by security at the art museum
they accused me of stealing one of the masterpieces
one look at you and I knew I was guilty
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
Las Meninas

Dementia makes a great creator,
sacrifice your sanity for the greater splendor,
it’s interesting how insanity makes a great inventor,
all the greatest were/are/will be crazy now and forever,

just ask this to Francis Ford Coppola the director,
or bat ****t (no disrespect but pun intended) Christian bale the actor,
or Vincent van Gogh who cut his ear off all creative geniuses are tortured,
so I suppose Picasso's no different in his portraits of torment as a painter,

what a mad medium the Expressive Arts are,
as if every artistic creation is it’s own emotional provocateur,
a window to the soul of a lunatic lit by the light of the moon,
and shown through the manifestation of a painting in living color,

abstract dualities uncovered,
a crack in the cement of our foundation,
the wooden frame of our reality begins to splinter,
like window panes in the winter open to interpretation,

ascending,
up a spiral staircase into the attic of an artistic addicts mind,
find some time then misplace it,
then replace it with a twist of fate and sprig of thyme,

face it fate is what we face when we're outta excuses and out of time,

I’m,

writing words,
like oil painted on canvas,
in a race no one wins,
even those with the most advantage,

brush strokes,
art works,
we are all tainted,
just look,
at Picasso,
and all the pain he painted,

this is the ballad of the obscene lick the palette clean and get wasted,

drunk in love,
under the influence of,
colors of pastels and multi tones,
high off life,
we’ve got a show tonight,
but for now I write in verbose undertones,

at the Picasso Museum in Barcelona,
in an insane world only crazy love seems sensible,
with Jay and Beyonce they say the circles get smaller you go,
and we’re at the top of the pyramid circle so small it’s a point at the pinnacle,

paining portraits in our own ways,
some sing some dance some actually paint,
and I’m not the Devil that that accuse me of being,
but I’m also not exactly a patron saint,

paint,
a portrait of this torture,
name,
it ‘Maids of Honor',

create,
an entire series of misery and maybe it will be your zenith,
make,
Hell as beautiful as Heaven & then when it’s finished call it Las Meninas,

then release it all and they will call you a gothic prophet an artistic genius,

love the art,
but not the artist,
love the hate,
but not the haters,
love heart,
but not what it harbors,
love the work,
but not the workers,

people love,
what they’re told to love,
like people love Picasso,
because that’s what they’re told,

rarely is greatness recognized,
while the artist is still alive,
no one wants to take the time,
to truly appreciate and recognize,

and speaking of time I know I’m late,
but better late and I apologize for my lateness,
but a true creative type can’t be rushed or hushed,
so please if you want to receive you must have that virtue called patience,

life is the canvas passions the paint it’s time for action let us paint this…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Picasso Was Fckn Insane... ∆
JGuberman Sep 2016
One

Everything I have I've acquired
from someplace else, like a museum
in a country of little or no history
which displays the works of great masters
as if they were native sons.
Lunar May 2016
And he told me, "You, my dear, are not a collection of people's memories. You don't need to house and protect everyone; you don't need to display and be proud for what they've done; you don't need to preserve them when all they do is walk over you. There will be moments that you have to guard them, but there will be much more of you having to watch out for your own self. You live for yourself and have confidence in it. You may be broken at times, but it's the fragments which make you much more intricately detailed.  You have the potential to be the main attraction. All you have to do is to let it show. Remember, you are not a museum, but a masterpiece of art."
This is a little write for self-doubt. If you have been having doubts about anything in your life, it is okay and it will pass. You will be scared of the risks, and even your dreams. But I'm telling you: if you're scared, then your dreams are worth the risks.
Julie Apr 2016
You said to me: "I'm in love with her."
Your eyes closed as you let out a sigh.
"I'm in love with a woman that's not you."

I broke to pieces.
My love another shattered vase in my museum.
A museum you'd abandoned.

How am I supposed to make you feel if you walk away?

You left me with endless knickknacks of memories and statues of passion.
I am your museum,
but you decided to build yourself another history.

"I'm in love with a woman that's not you."

And I'm in love with a dead man
whose only breath lies in dusty artifacts.
m i a Mar 2016
he was a masterpiece,
you can even say
that he was much more vaulable than a timepiece,
and everyday
he would always seem
to make my heartbeat increase.*

for he was such a lovely masterpiece.
darling, you are a lovely work of art.
sage short Dec 2015
the whispered
"I love you"'s
echoed through
the masterpieces hearts,
us being the two
most beautiful
works of art
in the room
Raven Oct 2015
She had turned her mind into a museum of people she had loved. And all the memories she had shared with them adorned the walls.
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