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Just Melz Apr 2015
Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart
BertJane Perez Apr 2015
My life was black and white
A colorless canvas that stood barren
Color was never essential
It was never a necessity of mine.

Yet somehow in my own dull perception
A dot had formed right in the center
A bright dot to say the least...

A peculiar thing I had never seen before
It grew slowly, little by little
A storm of color emerged with each inch
Brown, Yellow, Blue, Purple...
So many different colors

My canvas was no longer colorless
In fact it was the complete opposite.
It was not plain and it was not normal
It was now a work of art.

People gawked at its odd style
Praised it for its unusual strokes
A bizarre spectacle to most
And a quite unexpected transformation for me...

"Who painted this strange piece?"
Before I knew it people were staring at me.
Puzzling eyes that clapped in my direction

"Congratulations on your success"
Words that made me realize I was the painter
I was the one holding the brush
The "******" who painted my own path
The one who put color into my life

"Sign the painting" They all cheered
But now that I know I'm the painter
My work of art is not finished yet
I have unfinished business in my life

I cannot quit now.
Knowing that I still haven't found the right colors
The right mix of red, green or blue to solve my problems
I cannot call this a masterpiece...

My life is still a canvas
But it's not colorless anymore...
Lani Foronda Apr 2015
will you tell me of the hues that drip and bleed onto your canvas—
the streaks
the smudges
the smears.
are they the ones flowing through your veins
twisting—turning
to reach that place I long to call home?
or maybe the ones residing in your eyes
flickering—hiding
behind the mask you too willingly wear?
will you
show me the color of dawn
when darkness sheds its skin and kisses goodbye.
the amethyst seas
where sirens beckon from the deep.
the color of blood
when it meets oxygen’s lips.
the strokes of rain against the window pane
where you spent your autumn afternoons.
the cups of undrunk tea
that your mother left sitting on the kitchen table.
will you
show me the hues of your paint-stained hands
that I have yet to hold
so maybe—just maybe—
I too can see the colors you see.
February 27/April 22, 2015
9:09 pm
Anastasia Apr 2015
I was blank
But you covered me with sunsets and
Northern lights.
You showed me off to the world as
Your treasure.

As the colors faded,
So did your façade.
You held your paintbrush against my skin,
Coloring me
With black and blue hues,
Until the fumes knocked me out.

When the paint began to peel,
You scraped at my remains
Forcing me to feel
Your hands
On me again,
Until you were satisfied
With your work.

I have no blank spaces left
Except for the one within.

But how does a masterpiece
Leave her master?
Neex Apr 2015
Darling I'm strong,
So my tears are hidden,
But that's gives you no right,
To believe that I'm not broken.

I'm easy,
Quiet and shy with feelings and emotions,
And if you ask I'm bound not to tell,
You could say that my words get quite *lost
.

But I want the butterflies,
They've been gone for too long,
And I want my heart to race insanely,
To feel that way that's so raw.

I want to feel like someone cares for once,
I want to talk all night,
I want someone to think about me happily,
Never get tired,
And when I shut that someone out,
Maybe just put up a mighty fight.

My words get lost easily,
But for this I can tell on,
About the hole in my battered heart,
That tells me where you belong.

I can write songs in my scrappy book,
And smile to myself like I'm crazy,
Draw hearts all over the place,
Tell stories of this rare thing,
Cuz it's beyond me.

And I'll sing the melodies that you inspire,
If the music works,
That's all I require,
It's simply your presence that I desire.

Darling we might not converse,
But I can sight-read you,
Like the notes in my violin pieces,
And I can write you down,
Like the lyrics to my newest song.

So please be the painter,
Destroy or end your work of the heart,
Mine's been incomplete,
And I'm hoping this is just the start,*
And maybe you're not done.
Love. This type of love. And more.
The font came out messed up, sorry.
Rafael Alfonzo Mar 2015
A bird rests its wings
On the thin disfigured fingers of
The trees branches
Reaching ever so helplessly
To pull the clouds from the sky

And the breeze beats them to the stroke –

The wrinkled eyes of the painter grin in an open field
With a canvas the bristle has yet to caress
Before rolling it up
Like a chess mat
Or a map

He taps it shut like a telescope
Departing for home where there is a woman waiting for him
To inhale her sweet aroma
To swallow the food she’s prepared
To delicately draw the hair
Falling over her face
And tuck it behind her ear
And whisper the words
And brush her skin with quiet hand-language

And he will not be beaten
To the stroke

(c) 2015
Mariana Legaspi Feb 2015
I'm an artist

I'm a painter

I know the color your eyes
I've memorized them almost perfectly
and I paint them in my coffee all the time
era Feb 2015
I am dreaming of becoming the person I want to be...

I want to become a photographer.
The one that could capture every moment,
so that later will be remembered.

I want to become a painter.
The one that can make an art through hues,
that can make people's life more colourful.

I want to become a chef.
The one that can cook all kinds of dishes,
that can make our lives more flavourful.

I want to become a scientist.
The one that can invent new things,
so that people will recognize me.

I want to become a politician.
The one that could serve the public,
to stop the poverty.

But I can't become all of these..
No matter how high I would dream..
The real me will have to be just *me
(02-25-15)
Amitav Radiance Dec 2014
Life’s like a beautiful painting
When you hold the color palette
And you have the urge to be a painter
Apply the beautiful colors
To create the most attractive painting
Brush away the blues
Put more colors of love
Mix the colors to get the desired hue
Let the canvas remind
How beautiful a painter you are
Donna Bella Dec 2014
Art bursts out my veins onto the canvas.
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