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Every art movement has become home decor, even abstract expressionism, which in it's beginning had life. This is the only way the public could make sense of it, as something to fill space, otherwise not much else.
Once there stood a wanderer Above a sea of fog; A silhouette on alpine perch Built of jumbled rock.   He watched the wispy vaspor spray, Like cresting waves, Caressing ships of stone,
Were I to write a starry, Starry Night Or a perfect Degas ballerina set to rhyme If poetry from me flowed like Monet’s water lilies glowed
I would have happily stayed theresleeping in my airless candreaming in the silent darknesswith not a concern in the world
Look at all the rainbows in the water  She said  As she stared  Look at all the blues held in the skyline  She said  As she dreamed  Here let all my visions fly  Let me just paint the sky 
A Joan Mitchell painting a "lady painter"  splashes of color fly across the canvas a fearless slash of cadmium red against a meditating field of frosty blue created by a woman overshadowed by men
When the rain falls on to the asphalt And petrichor smells erupt, I'll remember the cloudy days spent in my room, My mind full of inspirations and ambition To create a beautiful painting.
Every petal painted pink and prime,Green leaves arranged with perfect symmetry,A few bright shades with which to tell a life,And yet a yearning in the purity. Structure formed and inside wholly planned,Meticulously minding every speck,Ideal distri
It moves, it watches; lays plastered on the wall; it mesmerizes the audience; from there, it envokes many meanings; from critics, who hate it; to fans who adore it; for in itself it is just a painting;
The cold whirled into the room, The breeze freezing the poor mans toes.   A sigh rattles in his chest, His fingers strum the strings of his guitar.
Inner folded prematurely molded  time is tempted  to be bolded small strokes of gentle wires to the face  The frame evokes a forecful fire  at waters pace
The endless pages of my sketchbook are filled with ducks Big ducks Small ducks White ducks Purple ducks And eerily incomplete ducks  
Decay in the earth of all living things. Just not here, where the cold keeps the flesh safe, maybe not from those ravenous beings,
I walked ruthlessly through the hall with a slight ringing in my ears It was as if I was being pushed and pushed to meet my final destination My muse, my mentor was reaching near
The warm and stiff Summer air, The gentle dance of the golden stems, And the blue home placed on the horizon Are beaming in the sunlight.  
Mr. Sean, you are the coolest person I know. When I met you, your hair had a streak of electric blue and it was the most badass thing I’d ever seen,
If a picture is worth a thousand words A poem is worth a thousand pictures  A thousand realities lie in carefully crafted lines To some, the word alone brings feelings of peace
a pristine splotch of fuschia / a flawless splatter of ruby / the radiant smudges of sunlight pure as a virgin / the poignant aroma of rose petals /
At Mark’s Painters Adelaide we fully offer comprehensive domestic painting to all our clients needing the service in Adelaide and its environs.
'Twas mid-day when I sat Ready with paint and brush and all that. Upon the stool I sat brush in hand But like a bowl of lentils plain, my mind 'twas bland. Minute after minute, hour after hour
Go to a museum and look at a painting Observe it carefully…you got it? Good Now close your eyes and describe the painting Did it have meaning? How was the technique? Was the artist famous? Did you feel any emotions?
She painted a picture   Charcoal on her hands caressing the lines of his back. The curves Water to her brush Over the white canvas Blank and patient Quiet Waiting  
An empty canvas, Is as a book with blank pages; So what use are these colours? If it's as a reader yearns for more chapters.
Your favorite medium was painting.Your favorite paint, my bloodBecause it came from the very heart beating for you.I always knew you had thorns,I just always assumed that they were for protecting me. 
Wiser hands with more experience mold younger ones into shapes positions designed to mimic their own The paintbrush between my hands is not angled quite like hers She makes a single, long stroke across the white page
I knew a boy who liked to paint, each piece a tessselation, a labyrinth of color and jagged edges. Some so loud I cowered, hands over ears, others hushed like petals on a flower falling.
I’ve traced the veins up your arms The angles of your jaw The slope of your cheekbones The basin of your forehead The curves of your sides The length of your limbs Over and over Again and again
Music, words spoken  Fashion design, theatre  Drawings and paintings  
Looking upon the white void before me An infinite field of endless possibility A blank slate to build any kind of world of my desire I run my hand over the blank sheet of paper that makes me feel free  
I am the illustrator The masterpiece creator The doodler Subjective art form translator   Visionary artist
Paint Smooth and shiny Vibrant colors, make me happy The way it easily stains the canvas Expresses my inner emotions and thoughts Calming me, and yet firing me up I love paint, and paint loves me
An exhale of relief when the brush hits the paper How the paint flows about like the blood in my veins Connected we are through things unseen Tension release is now the pop art theme
A painter knows it's love When they see the art in everything you do. When they know you're a masterpiece And they want to study every inch of you. When they want to feel your every edge
i can feel it  in a place in me there isn't a name for yet somewhere between my heart and diaphragm. sort of takes up this space that’s otherwise lightless. something happens without me knowing
Tall, stone and gray, We walk into the dull box-shaped building. Inside looks the same. Where is the color? Where is the art?   A sign reads “Monet”.
Your eyes remind me of Monet'sImpression, sunrise. Like standing by the water,At five o'clock in the morning,Sea breeze and an oversized sweater.  Full of promise and new beginnings.Like rays of light dancing on the harbor.Salty air and messy hair
My mind is filled like a finger paint canvas. The colours, mixed in.
Without painting I would be  Stranded in a world Without color.   Without drawing  I am nothing but a segment on a timeline.   Without crafting Time is wasted
Art;     the (blood rushing through my veins, painting me with color in this gray, flavorless world)  ability to take your brok-            en, s e n s e l e s s, s   c     a
I am slowly changing like a painting manipulated and altered by multiple artists. The artists and I grow old together. My tattered corners must add some character to me, right?
When the canvas is done,  My heart has won  All the paint consumes me,  Can they just let me be  Wishing to follow my own path, But they want me to pursue in math I know I carry potential,
She lies on a colorless bed, remaining silent Her chest rises and falls softly, the rest of her body motionless Strange, bulky machines occasionally beep, randomly stirring the silence So young, so innocent
Time.   It has grown these knarreled and misshapen oaks.   It has ravaged and swelled these grey grey graveyards.   And it faded  the once  great abbey into
Sometimes I wish I was a Painter. To play God in my Own little world.   To create the colors Of a Universe only I have been to. That only I know.   Sometimes I wish
He noticed me and picked up a brush; he is his canvas. He was missing a few stripes and wanted to fill them in. Black streaks fly across the painting; the strokes looked almost skin like.
It was there, Always there. In the long studio, In the one room apartment, In the new house, In the green living room.   It was always there. In the second spring
The Old Masters paint ladies with rough horsehair brushes and treat them with noxious turpentine.
Palette of gray starts the scene, Hinting white, but never leaving black. Find a section, add more white. Now a drop of yellow, a touch of blue Blending and dabbing, and then lastly,
We men have painted in blood a small, disproportionate portrait of our God.   Predestination of life and damnation, One trail but two gates for the will-less cattle, and Segregation by herds
She tried drawing herself as a lover on the canvas of his mind He erased all her sketches when her called her just a friend With one innocent word, she knew it was over then
I think far too often There's no room for all of it in my bone skull Some get pushed out into words Mostly the shallow, people pleasing, floating on the surface things that human conversation lives off of
Life is like a painting, we add more to it each day. Forming different stories, in many different ways.   Life is like a pianting, for problems we'll defeat. Adding definition and value,
Now that summer washed away, and school is in full swing, I realized there's no time to play, or warmth until this spring.   I must look beyond the gray, and look for all that's good,
I sit alone Staring at a blank canvas The power to create anything overwhelms
I found my long lost twin in France. Hanging in an art museum. She is pale with long curly red hair. Like me.  She is a goddess, born out of a shell from the sea. Not like me.
The world is a canvas And nature is the painting All the colors flow together To create a beautiful picture   The location determines the temperature While the seasons pick the colors
Why do we need to do what the teacher tells us to draw? Aslong as I put effort and make an art like creation, I should get an A in art. 
I touched brush to paint, Paint to canvas. Poured thoughts, feelings and emotions, At every dab, At every stroke.   Permeate it with life! Saturate with color! Drench it in richness!
Here's what keeps this soul goingHere's what makes
 r                                                                   i    e                                                             n       p                                                       s
I dream of her
My mother of Resolution A mother of hope A listener of wisdom My detective of crime Understanding of all imperfections   Loving, caring, compassionate
I have two hands and a brush And a silver palette filled With many colors lush That I swirl and I swill.   My brush I drag across and down. Black drips into white
I couldn't help it, I couldn't.The colors wouldnt workYou couldn't get along with the others.You thrashed without movingI could not keep you.
Cold, chilly, windy, wet, I watch as the rain flies by. Quiet, calm, warm, cozy, I sit in my room and sigh.  Wafting tendrils of clove, The scent reaches my nostrils, Enticing me to sit.
A light coral stains her pale cheeck
A vacated room With nothing at all Except one painting That hung on the wall   A beautiful painting Very well done A perfect landscape,  I vibrant sun   The room was bright
Why don't you paint me like I am? Dancing and singing Full of life Always looking for adventure, never looking for trouble With close family and friends by my side Why don't you paint me Like I am
Violent reds swirling Drowning the pitiful fading white tint Vibrant crimson clouds shrouding the canvas Angst Self loathing Fear A tainted brownish purple explodes and shatters inner thoughts
I could say I write because it is an outlet, a way to release anger from a broken past and broken family. I could say I write because my mom was not there, because sometimes I write to convince myself that I don't hate her.
With each stroke and drip of paint there is emotion ... There is a message By seducing the canvas with paint I am portraying some presage I want to be seen, I want to be heard I want people to think
I shuffle through canvases, looking for the right size. Through tall and short, rectangle or square, til one catches my eyes. I pull it out, place it on my easel, then turn to my paint.
You were like a painting I couldn’t finishA mural in my mind, how I planned to love youYou were my canvas,Each day you made me smile,A streak of golden yellow I’d paintEach day I woke up thinking of you,
Look up at the sky, what do you see? I see a bird looking down at me. What does it see when it looks at me? Nothing, as I see nothing in me.   Why do you not have any hope?
The relaxing of souls after someone has spoken. The ceasing of anger after love has spread. The rekindling of broken hearts after showing your other side. These are the results of poetry, so when I grow up, I want to be a poet.
Away in her room, the little maiden sits, Sent there for throwing too many fits. Her brunette locks rest on her broad shoulders and cascade down,
Sketching the world in a little black notebook; preferably the kind that highlights the light. Walk by and find that your figure has danced on my paper. I fail to see the reflecting light subside.
A brush of color through silvered night air, Paints a dragon’s false shape, starlit shining Majesty with which no one can compare. Aurous beast, streak through the wind like lightning
A garden of white, bouquets of black and purple. Black and purple flowers that resemble her bruised memories. A garden created of pathways, interconnected, confused, and dizzy. A garden of mazes,
There’s something about how the color grey, Can become an entity in and of itself. How it can overtake a scene and infect its people. A whole community of people, Hearts heavy with responsibility and need
Paint falls to canvas carrying with it the imagination of time. Landscapes, made of strokes miniscule and bold. Buildings, made of the sun’s shades, struggle not to melt in darkness.
A streak of red, Anguish. A splash of blue, Tears. Yellows and oranges blossom, Bringing happiness. Swirls of green And black Lurk Eager to introduce
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