Artist
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You had me at first glance
You gave me more than just a chance
You lit a fire in me that I can never defuse
You are the artist that became my muse
This is how we deal with things
Red, blue, purple, green
Splashes of paint against the canvas of life
Leaving our marks in the world
Black
The color of tragedy and of growth
To be an artist is to create
something that expresses
abstract emotions and to translate
them into the language of the senses.
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.
Grounding me, similar to the acts of a ship’s anchor
You are my stability.
Anxiously waiting to hit land,
We met,
like wave greeting beach
You are not the painter but the canvas
As a favorite author has said
Painted by other individuals
Colors are chosen by emotions
Hurt makes the blues
He tried, got to see her outstretched arms
evaporate, what we see when morning light
obliterates the stars.
Sunsets bathed in gold
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,
Dear Ex
Love is an illusion of lust combined with a drug addiction,
Finding pure happiness is nothing but a tall tale fiction,
Vanished without closure I'm not ready for it to be over,
T'was once before the break of day when in the silence of a stored cachethere upon my memories ladder one ring above a thought came afterwhat was once so fine, so well placed, now lay defeated and disgraced
New York,
You're a strange place.
Filled with some that fit in and some that don't
With some that fit in because they don't
Some who make it, and some that won't
The brush trails behind streaks of paint
Still wet, it reflects the chandelier’s light.
While the artist chooses his schemes of colors,
Black and white become his queen.
Even now as I attend my art classes at college I hear people saying that you cannot make it in this world as an artist, and they write an invisible list in the wind of reasons for me to give up.
Every Morning i wake up
To a feeling that i'm feeling that we ain't us,
Pain in her eyes when i leave has her feeling anxious,
A gut feeling in her pancreas,
Long hours of night are not meant for dreaming.
They are for dreams to keep you awake -
to fill books with imagination.
If I were an artist
and you were my muse
I'd paint you a thousand times
so I could hear your voice
for a million years
I'd paint you with gold
like the stars in the sky
Industrial decay
Left the workers in dismay.
Jobs lost, life costs.
The buildings are in ruin
Yet the teenagers pursue in
The creative inspiration
This nation chases them away from.
You taught me that my body was for lease, that I was there for rent every time your "friend" kicked you out of your place, you signed our contract with rhymes cause you knew I've always had a thing for emcees, wanted to find love like Zeke and Myl
They prayed for you to succeed in all you do
But what are you supposed to do
When all you do
Is make people proud?
There is nothing that speaks to you
And they speak to you
It’s cold this time of year
Bitter fights
White frosted hands
and words
School is tiring
Dull and monotonous
It is warm though
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’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
Autumn mornings I wake before the sun,
scrape tired limbs from under the covers,
leaving bits of myself behind like raw pancake batter...
Pancakes...
Is there time to make pancakes for breakfast?
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
I get out of bed every morning
because if I were to lie still
then who would there be
to paint all the colors I see in my dreams?
If I were to lie still
then my world would never be any brighter
5- Wake up, Start The Show
7- Get Up, Get Ready, Start Class
5- Pull Lines, Feel the Flow.
The biting exchange of night into morning is here.
I lay coldly, intertwined in crimson sheets and tangled hair.
Awake from a daze into the new day,
I lost myself trying to find myself
In the process, I became someone else
I thought I knew me but the closer I saught the farther it got me
In the end I always knew who I was but I didn't notice
Standing back
To see it all
Every vivid curve
Paint portraying
Each lesson learned
Each moment of pain
Each difficult day
To see it all
Connect and flow
When I was young I wanted the spotlight.
I did whatever I could to have people notice me.
Now, not that much.
I guess that is what happens
When you want to hide from the bullies.
So very few people
Know how to convey
The making of this world,
I could never draw a picture to my satisfaction
The colors, texture, or shading
Never matched the image in my mind’s eye
I could see it as clear as day
A forest with tall trees, the plush moss covered ground
I was always an artist first
but words were just a new kind of paint
Not so much a visual medium
and not so much music
but something in between
With words dripping out of my fingers
the artist who drinks thier own blood,
is the first to taste the salt,
flavor to enhance the taste,
seasoning to please the guests,
our blackest paints add the deepests contast,
A couple clicks
On a bright screen
In a dimly lit familiar place
New seats take the frustration away
But no the panic of deadlines
Or the anxiety of competition
Among the better graphics
With words of poison in my direction, I am an artist.Express feeling with color and word;paintbrush and pen.
I am an artist
I am a painter
I am the brush, flowing on the canvas
I am the canvas, being tickled by the hairs of the brush
I am the color, being picked to make a master piece
I am the master piece
Chocolate dew and melted rain.
Putting all these illusions into a frame.
Art that spoke to you.
painting and then stamping your name.
They call it science but it would not be fair game.
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?
Red, orange, green and even blue
No its not the rainbow I'm talking about but its food.
More than just a taste,
but an artwork of colors and designs on a plate.
Combining flavors to create a new,
Don't trust a creative typeDon't trust a musicianHe'll create melodies like the ones you heard as a childYou'll dance to every chord so blissfullyThe tempo starting slow then soon racing like your heart
I am an Artist
You might write me down as a nobody,
You might say I don't have a chance,
But I am an Artist,
I create,
I live,
I love,
I hurt,
I learn,
And I won't stop,
I Am
The river of thought that flows through the imagination of those who connect with paper and pen
This artist is prisoned,
In thoughts of grassy head.
Many things describes him,
But few expresses.
He is empty with childhood memories,
Away from freedom of another soul.
I am a listener,
Awakening to the sounds of the day,
Swaying to the whispering rhythms that no one else can hear,
And feeling cool, like in awesome, with goosebumps on my arms.
I am Lucas.
Yet people insist that I am someone named "Hannah",
Someone that is no longer me.
I am male.
Yet people insist that I am female
I used to wonder why
The other five year olds could never
Color between the lines-
My parents said I would be an artist,
When I am no longer
May my daughter be brilliantandBeautiful
10 times stronger
when I'm no longer
May she have knowledge and aspire to be wise
the ability and confidence to rise
when I am no longer
Ink-smudged hands betray me
Proof that I'm still fighting
My thoughts can be rambunctious
I don't quite know where I am
I do not care if the matter be dark or the tone grim.I care not if what is described be gore or sin.A well-turned phrase stirs attention deep within.
I do not say this merely on a whim.
Though my stars be dark and my spirit black
It is not without reason that you find this lack
Of empathy, pity, mercy, or care
For others of similar gare.
My stars were darkened by the sun
Yes I can get a little over excited,
apparently I'm told I do the most.
For as long as I could remember,
I felt more joy with others than being by myself or "alone."
ArtistAwkward, CreativeDrawing, Painting, SculptingStudent, Teacher, Woman, Man Sketching, Creating, ThinkingFunny, IntelligentProducer
"Not weedless, but beautiful,"
Says the gardener of her flowers.
"Not eternal, but sturdy,"
Says the builder of his house.
"Not worth a million dollars, but priceless."
Says the artist of her work.
I wake up to the sun rays filtering through my bamboo screens.
I pause,
drenched in the warm honey glow of an almost summer morning.
I crawl, scramble in a generally awkward fashion,
Perfection in sublime imperfection
Unique by design,
The Creator’s creation echoes Eternal
Soaring, reverberating, carving past present streams of stalagmites, the stale and the nocturnal
I'm addicted to beauty,
Addicted to destruction.
I'm addicted to pieces and broken things
Because I'm trying to find my "whole".
I'm addicted to the sunrise,
And to the moonrise,
Quiet,
I sit and take in the world,
spinning in drifts
-- golden flecks of ash—
a cloud of shimmering possibilities shade my reality.
There's a girl in my English classwho always looks out the windowand sketches little people on the side of her spiral notebook.
If the artist cannot find her pen,
What is she? Then?
A girl?
Or, simply a human without a purpose
or so the world tells her.
Today I saw her smile break (over again -
Hope cracked open and spilling out her eyes to drain away
Like the colour in her face)
And it hurt just as much as it did the first time
At 6am, I'm miserable.
Time to get out of bed, move my behind,
Clock in for $7.25 at the daily grind,
Eight hours for this is fucking criminal.
At noon, I'm finally awake.
As people say I am not I look around and find an empty lot I try not to worry for they never understand My gift and duty I have on hand.
Why am I kickass?
My grades are quite high,
for me the girls would die,
I've got luscious brown hair,
when you're older you'll care,
I jump high for my heighth
also, I'm white.
My skin is the skin that God put me in on the day that was the day of the 17th in the month of November the year being the one-thousand nine-hundred nintey-seventh year Anno Domini....
The beauty of love,
Is that it cannot be sought,
It cannot be tracked,
It can only be found,
Sometimes in the most unlikely of places
I'm no Barbie.But I Thought I Should be.Compared myselfTo girls of the Barbie standard.Hurt myselfThinking all about'perfection'.
You stay up late with your coffee filled veins,As I scribble down your name.And baby, I dream with my eyes open,I can't ever be the same.
This is my peom about how I feel, I never realized how hard itd be to peel,
back all the visual standards to better reveal.
My inner desires, thoughts turning my wheel.
Well here I am, and this is what I'll say,
Im not afraid to show it, I dont care if people know it. I love myself.
Ive taught myself to think it, I live, breathe, drink it. I love myself.
Mirrors use to make me cry, now I dont even have to try. I love myself.
Dear Artists,
We all have 3 common grounds of expressions
I.
One common idea to keep our feets grounded while the rest of our heads wandering in the universe
Because we artists are the universe
Why does the wind blow on the other side?
Feeling as if I'm trapped in my own of forgetfullness
Writing you this poem reflects my lovemakes you doubt, it’s hard to concealAccused to things that’s hard to dealso please erase the doubts above. Trust is like freeing a dove
Beautiful black butterflies stirred up the wind,
and with God's assistance a southern breeze created my beautiful brown skin.
Skin that glistens in the sun and blends with the night.
On an overcast December morning, my mother gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.
Bob,
my mother addressed my father.
There is something that the doctor has just told me about Gabriel.
I am an artist.Some people would say that 'artist'is synonymous with 'creator'--I am not a creatOR,I create AND keep on creating.
By chord or page
by leap or stroke
by chisel or chainsaw
creation is done.
Process,
more or less
can impact success.
Chord by chord
notes bring melody
I have a thought on my mind
and a hunger in my core,
I need to fill up my heart before it’s over.
I need to see the pressure rise
just as I escape demise--
He was gone before I could meet him
Still, I knew him
The pictures hung on the wall
Lonely.
The scenic views he saw
His passion apparent in every stroke
Charcol smeared and painted
I am a chameleon
The colorful pariah
Blending in so perfectly
To painted walls behind us
Oh, how can I know myself?
When I'm never the same
No anchor set no place my home
Of business and whimsy
The scraps on the heap of the world are art.
I just choose to make them my own
and call it my creative side.
Reality bent for societies' eyes
Stupid, smart
Unsatisfactory, full
Eighteen years have come
And soon they will be gone
For what I have dreamed of
Is no reality
Raised in the West
With the ideals of the East
Standing out as an individual
A beautiful house sits on a hill
One that was built from scratch
I watched as the owner designed it;
To help, to endure, and to care,
To make the world, noble and fair,
To be able to heal the child with grace,
To return them to a parent's embrace,
To say I assisted children in need,
Starving
Desperate, Hopeless
Wishing, Wanting, Begging
College, Debt, Wealthy, Employed
Striving, Achieving, Believing
Deep in my mind
Imagination was born,
Constricted in bind
My imagination had torn.
The walls that had lied,
That constricted my life
Are no longer alive.
Now that I'm free
I've gone through everything.
Encouragement; Discouragement.
Praise; Ridicule.
Advice; Sabotage.
You name it, my art has felt it.
Then, an opportunity, a chance!
A risk, a gamble.
I was a woman drowning in my own tears, bound by the chains of my own depression.
No one around to listen to my story and be the ear to my painful confessions.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"An artist," I innocently answered my parents at four years of age.
"What do you want to be in the future?"
Your lips, your eyes, your soul, Are like a work of art, The most creative thing of all, Is your beautiful heart. If you were a painting, no colors could express the beauty deep inside you, A rainbow, nothing less.
An artist’s mind is often swallowed by indigenous thoughts. Trying to balance ones conceptions on a fine thread.
Life is but a picture painted by God
Everything we discover and every step we take
Is another brush stroke in his creation
From every atom to every galaxy there is beauty
For us to find an adventure which is life
What is the idea that started this all?
The one that broke the glass?
Wet the paintbrush
and mix the paint,
apply colour.
Colours blending,
Ceasing to become anything other than
Pure pigment.
I am an artist.
"Your line quality is lacking,"
The artist who uses blood for paint
The boy who needs to love
Her passion and fury she fears will taint
One like a gentle dove
You--spill over margins,
between lines
lace ink
with weakness--Your--
trembling fingers
aching viscera
cold sweats--pouring between shoulders,
and flinching limbs--blood pumped by,
You said you wished the stars were red,so I pulled them down one by oneand painted them by hand,for you.
I always wanted to be an artist -
to capture life in two dimensions,
to see beyond the commonplace -
who knows that makes us tick
I always wanted to have a medium -
I am a humble man,
No hero, king or saint.
My purpose is my brush,
My canvas and my paint.
My Dear, I have this gift -
I paint all that I see,
And everything I paint
No Canvas displayed, No Brush, No Crayons, But In a Matter of Second: the Whole World is Changed
into a Beautiful scenery: No Human Being can follow His Genius Art!
He is using the Nature as His Canvas, and His Crayons!
A girl with a silent struggle
Words caught in her throat
Carefully blended in
Edges too blurred
Easily missed.
Someone with a name
But a name of no distinction.
“What’s in a name?
How do you spell that?
What does it mean?
In what language?
What are you mixed with?
So which one of your parents is black?
Wait, one fourth white? How does that work?
What kind of asian are you?
The cocks are crowing for you—
Wild, unwavering alarm. "They do so five times a day, at the times for prayer,"
You explained to me then. Nobody know's why.
Sitting on the wicker mat, ataaya falling from your cup to mine.
The plight of the artist is one unable to be understood by others,
By those who assume that an artist has it easy,
Those who believe that art is a commodity.
On the outside I'm strong
But on the inside I'm in Hell
I make subtle cries
But no one who notices will help
(poems go here) On the outside I'm strong
But on the inside I'm in Hell
I make subtle cries
But no one who notices will help
Beware of Artists for they mix with all classes of society and are therefore the most dangerous.
They study and socialize with any and all people.
They are unafraid of what is different, strange, or new.
The Queen of Spades is so close to I the Ace.
Almost there!- BUM! A questionable and ache
inflamed and infested the sweet plum of my face.
And now, it hurts on my back, the back body of the space.
Darkness cages, while canvas white
is his only light as he avoids traces
of human life. He ignores splattered paint, dripping
brushes, and sickening scent of mildew and waste.
I am the epitome of a starving artist
I read poems under the light of the moon
and I guess you can say I want everything a little too soon
Hidden from the world, years spent tucked away
Did you hear me calling? Crying out your name?
Shunned and left alone, corners and dark rooms
A child with open scars, and burning wounds.
