art
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A metallic mind is created by a single word
Many words—
Words that fill the mind with
Confusion
Love
And pain
It’s in misery my feelings lie
It’s in misery that I take pride
It’s in misery I come alive
For only then can I convey what’s mine
Have you felt a feeling so resounding as if your worries dissovle into dust and you exhale and allow yourself to become part of the wind?
A child’s crayon
bent, worn down
flakey, smooth
she has used it
for all her notebooks
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.
One day every business will be converted
into an artist's studio.
Business is a dead art form, and does not
guarantee a culture it's success.
I hear the Rienzi Overture of Wagner
Art is the portal to heaven or hell
A colorful perception of bliss or horror
Waiting to be narrated or manifested
Ink of my soul,
Precious portal of puzzling wonder,
Make me whole,
where aura aims high and art sparkles the clouds,
I drank the moon
It was blue at noon
My heart was snatched by bloom
I was mad as insanity driven soon
Each rev was mind blown as the moon and noon
Momma said there’d be days like these
The sweat on your brow
And the pain in your knees
Momma said how the world can often be hard
How the ones that you love
Can leave you with scars
Hart’s heart stops
Hart’s art lives after him
Hope unendingly bleeds through veins and channels
Hart’s home is the muse
Clay tells all your secrets
the ones you hide from others and yourself
You think your doing a decent job at concealing your frustrations, anger, and sadness
but the clay points to every intrustive thought
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 have never won a poetry competition. Never gotten second, third, or an honorable mention for that matter.I have never been told I should become a poet, but that’s not why I write.
So there you go
You finally got your wings
You’re as free as a pigeon in a parking lot
Blue-grey
with just a hint of shimmer
Fluttering aloft for only moments
Before settling back onto the pavement
i ask the lips, why are you crying?'I lost my colour, i lost my flame, i lost my longing'.The eye says:'I lost the inward tenderness,fade the light around me'and the ear,'i don't hear harmonies
And at the end, what?what happens to the living when they die?what happens to the tears when the eyes close?Where do the stars go when we don't dream?where the pain of memory goes?
My child, let your life come into the world of darknesslike a spark of light, without flicker and pure,and thank them in silence.
You know, my child, they are cruel in their greed and envy,
When one door opens, another closes.this is the eternity's circle,mistakes belongs to us, but not all, the fate mapped out for us to follow,but does not define our choices, beings of necessity and randomness,
Ya Know The Poetry Circuit’s SURE GOT Some... EGOS... !!!
Or Maybe Some Poets Shuv’ COC’ UP Their Nose... !?!
DAMN That ISN’T Your AVERAGE PROSE... !!!!!
Oops I’m NOT Britney...
Now It Has Been Said By Other Poets...
That MY Poems OFFEND Some Heads... !!!
Well That’s Because I EXPRESS What I TRULY FEEL... !!!!
So Don’t Write Words For... MASS APPEAL... !!!!!
Art
its a form of exspresing
ones true feelings
its how one opens up
without breaking down the walls
it is a way to relive stress
and anger
and saddness
There CLEARLY Are... " TWO Pools " ... !!!
The One Where Artists FUEL Creations That Are COOL... !!!
And The ENTERTAINMENT School Where Art Now Gets ABUSED... !!!!
These Days THESE... " Entertainers "...
I am from the cold worries of winter,
From that gnawing permanence
And the rejoice of warm spring.
I am from the two venus violets.
(Mulberry to Sunset Orange,
Now It Seems That There Are Those...
Who Think The Skills I Expose...
Are JUST... Clever Rhyme Flows...
Well Here’s A Big Virge Quote...
That’ll Make Them CHOKE... !!!
Ya Know It Seems To Be TRUE... !?!
When It Comes To THE TRUTH....
And How You Use Artistic Grooves...
Less Is MORE Nowadays For Sure... !!!
I've Been Told These Words By VARIOUS Herds....
I apologize
For making half rhymes
It's a habit I can't break no matter how I tries
Hope you pardon me
When you hear me sing
Like a scratchy vinyl record or a gagging geek
I'm so sorry for
Ya Know This Violence thing Just Isn't In Me... !!!
I'm Just Wondering When You Masses Will See... ?
That Wars Are Like Whores WITHOUT A Pussy... !!!!!!
See It Really Is Futile To Be Messin' With Me... !!!
I want our love
to disrupt worlds.
I want our love to be tumultuous.
I want people to see us and see two universes
It’s An Undoubted Fact...
That Sometimes It’s Like That... !!!
The Thing You Love Doing...
Doesn’t Always Bring Cash... !!!
For Those Who Make Music...
Or Those Who Write Tracks...
So When Are We TOO OLD To Be Seen As.... " Dope ".... ?!?
Or What's Called HOT Like Some SUPER FINE Crotch.... !!!!!
Well I'm At THAT AGE Where My Body NOW ACHES... !!!
But STILL Have A BRAIN That Functions... OKAY... !!!
Loved ever since seen,Everyone wants to be part.It can beam like a dream,It can look like a fart.It can take year and years,or it can take a few hours.It's the reasoning of multiple tears,It's to show the posession of powers.
I Now KNOW What It Is To Be A FRUSTRATED ARTIST... !!!!
I May Not Be The FASTEST With Lyrics That I Kick...
Or Deemed To Be The HARDEST Because of Scripts I FLIP... !!!
Now My Name’s NOT Shaggy...
But It’s Clearly NOT ME Who Will EVER Be...
A Star Like Those Who Hold BIG Shows...
Where Droves And Droves of People Go... !!!
I Like A Good Poet And LOVE A GOOD Rap... !!!
But How Many People Can Say They Do That... ?!?
Many Write Stuff That Huffs With NO PUFF... ?!?
Others Write Stuff That... HITS Like A CUFF... !!!
Variety They SAY Is The... " Spice of Life "... !!!
Well They Could Also Say It INSPIRES My Rhymes...
And Helps Me To Write... My Poetry ... !!!!!
Spreading my lashes outwards to the sun, moon and stars.
Connecting bodies as a rhizome,
Emerging here and there, lost in nowhere.
Moulding rhythms, rhymes, tones, flights and falls between the words.
I enjoy reading poems,
They beget a sense of serenity.
They put a heart alarmed at ease,
Wrap in a fabric of peace and tranquillity.
Read the poems aloud,
Savour your breath.
Now If You’re...NOT A Writer...
Let Me Explain To Y’all...
That It’s True That Our World’s...
A Lil’ DIFFERENT To Yours... !!!
Because We Choose To THINK...
About What Y’all... Ignore... !?!
Now I'm A Poetic Man...
Who... DOESN'T Like SLAMS... !!!!!
And I... NEVER Have... !!!!!!
Because EVEN When I Did Them...
I Knew They Were A SHAM... !!!!!
I’m A... Marshal of Reality Verse...
So REMOVE The ABSURD...
From The Words of Big Virge... !!!
It slowly starts slithering its way through the land of corn
creating a momentum of fire as it rises, stretching its wings word for word
It becomes difficult for the mouth to catch up to the rhythm of my tongue
Ya Know ... We CAN'T ALL BE ...
... Artistically Free ... !!!
It’s A FALLACY To Truly Believe ...
That Artistry... Truly Deals In FREE Speech ...
breeze like soft hands brushing hair out of my eyes
dandelion seeds float through the sun-bathed sky light as feathers
soft earth below my feet is humble and grounding
you are a work of art.
from far away, you look absolutely perfect.
but when i'm standing in front of you, all of your gritty details show themselves loud and clear.
So EXACTLY WHAT Is The... " INDUSTRY "... ?
A Place For Sheep To BLEAT... !!!!!
Or Somewhere For The Weak...
To CLAIM That They Sound Sweet...
Now My Poetic Lessons...
Are A Form of Expression...
Like... " Song or Prose “...
Or... “ Theatrical Shows “...
They Reflect My Vision...
of The World That We Live In...
Music is the only medicine that exists when there's no cure for
the noise in which my mind is drowning.
Maybe I don't cry but it hurts,
Maybe I don't show it but I care,
And although I don't say much I feel a lot.
Ya Know I Like A GOOD Show ...
When It's Done ... WELL ... !!!!!
From Concerts To Dramas ...
To Flicks That Hit HARDER ...
Than ... ABUSIVE Partners ... !!!!
It Was The Rock Who Said It BEST... !!!
But I'll Interpret What He Said...
.... "It doesn't matter what you think, of lyrics that I kick !
.... I'm just being artistic, so, stop being a prick !"
Now YOU MUST Know The Saying ...
... "Opinions and Assholes, are one and the same !" ...
EVERYONE's Got One Even If They Are ... LAME ... !!!!!
Art is
aesthetic,
pleasing to the eye,
but also
utilitarian
as in pottery
the warmth of a woven
blanket...
and whether it is
primitive
or modern
simple
or complex
MAN What Is It With ARTISTS... ?!?
When It Comes To The Markets...
Where They... Wanna Be SEEN... !!!
SEEING Money... And Their ARTISTRY...
REACH The Peeps' Who They're TRYING To Reach...
So Are You A... Risk TAKER... ?
Or One Who Plays... SAFER... ?
Than Those Whose Flavour Prefers MISBEHAVIOUR... !!?!!
The Reason I Ask Is Because It's QUITE A Task...
To Make Your Mark If Your Thing Is... ART... !!!
So Are You A... FOLLOWER of Trends... ?
Or Are You A... " Trendsetter "... ?
... " COME FORWARD MY SELECTOR "... !!!!!!!!
I have listened to your song on repeat
Over and over again in the dark
Different styles and different artists
But still your song
I have listened to every note, every lyric
And I realize only now
Wandering the hills of my city with my mind ajar
A craving for the unknown a cliff of curiosity within my mind
Here, I live upon the toes of death and life
Well, I've been accused
of being
way too dramatic,
but the world I accuse
of being
much too dogmatic...
I will leave it at that,
I don't want no static,
don't want no arguments,
When gods remove their mask
the face behind is no more
than a creator. An artist
on days ego is allowed to sing
becomes a creation. Breaths
spun from their own lungs
Maybe life is like art?
Given a blank canvas at the start.
As life starts going;
Art begins flowing.
Every humans piece of artistic production is unique.
Ya Know ....
I Was With Some Poets When THIS Was Said ...
“When it comes to your poems, what defines success ?“
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
It amazes me how some people are able to make their bodies move,
And how they work countless hours in an empty studio to try and improve.
I close my eyes
and see a thousand worlds
Made up of pictures tastes and
handpicked words
When my hands rest against
The lettered keys
I write myself into
a lucid dream
To be an artist is to create
something that expresses
abstract emotions and to translate
them into the language of the senses.
She was a distinctive girl who likes to switch up her image, says the bottle of hair dye
On the glossy white bathroom counters
A patient girl too, says the oil paint drying
A fancy sign and open door,
Is the entry where I found you.
Leaving me wanting more,
Eyes fixed to you like glue.
See, I dabble in the arts myself,
Though I haven’t had the time.
Inspiration has no particular source.
It appears in everything that surrounds us,
the little things that make us stop for a moment because
there it is again.
That feeling.
A boy prances on the theatre stage
His pirouettes piqued my next mind's page
His pretty face sets my eyes to him
It takes such might to unglue them
He turns, and twists and jumps so high
Well, I've been accused
of being
way too dramatic,
but the world I accuse
of being
much too dogmatic.
I will leave it at that,
I don't want no static
don't want no arguments,
They walk through dreams,
Skating on brush strokes of resplendent colors,
Gliding through prismatic clouds.
Leaves are nothing more than venations.
Working on assumptions sucksyou're feeling this, tell meyou don't feel this, tell meyou want this, tell meyou don't want this, tell mejust tell me
you said you were taxing to love
as if that could ever be true
loving you is like loving christmas lights
loving you is like breathing
Life is worth living
Everybody deserves to be giving
When you get hit
You learn to deal with it
When you fall down
You may hit the ground
However it is not the end
Some People NEED To ... " CHILL " ...
Because I'm Getting SICK Or Better Still Quite ILL ... !!!
Because Some Seem To Think My Lyrics HIT Like BRICKS ... !!!!!!!!
An indwelling
force
ancient
as humanity
a need
to cull
from our environment
depictions.
It is a bringing
forth,
the urge
to beautify
and decorate-
to craft...
Commonplace
themes
though not necessarily
cliche
they've held their
significance
through time...
For the artist,
creative minds,
these are old standards,
reliable touchstones
Use It For ... " Your Music " ...
Use It For ... " Your Verse " ...
Use It To EXPRESS What Makes You HURT ... !!!
Use It YES ... To Write Poems ...
But DON'T ABUSE It When You Use Your Pen ... !!!
"Touched with Fire"
- an intriguing title
to a book, then a movie
both deal with a thin line-
that hairsbreadth
between
madness
and art
genius
and frenzy...
It is a plunge
To be called upon by a force of art
Requires strength challenging to possess.
To create and contribute to this force and its atmosphere
when we’re you last a child?
that time you could close your eyes and dream with reckless abandon
holding onto that glimpse of simpler times
A dull life without it
A colourful life with it
It has the ability to sway ones mood
With nothing but a simple melody
It has been known to inspire many arts
Articulation of Thought Is A SKILL … Fa Sure … !!!!!
And A TRUE Art Form When It Is Performed … !!!
It's A Style That's Born From Taking Your Thoughts …
From A PRIVATE Place Like Say Your Brain …
It's Said That … "Old McDonald Had A Farm " …
But What About The Farm Where Words Are Farmed … ?
Through Songs That Charm And Visuals That … " Chart " …
Beauty And Harm ...
Do You Know The Farm I'm Talking About … ?
Thank you for sharing your art
From the depths of your heart
And the confines of your soul
You pulled together something so bold
So moving and new
It inspired me to share my view
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
As we sit here, a garish clown-red oil paint,
Thick as mud and hot as blood,
Splatters across the Earth, staining the lives
Of those it lands on.
My cart stopped.
I loosened my grip on the handle.
There before me was the most beautiful blue sweater hanging on the rack.
Then it wasn't.
Who was this random woman stealing my joy?
Waiting.
I find when my head is filled with impenetrable dread,
And clouds of grey and deep blues hover above my head,
That what floats within my mind’s eye and what is seen ahead,
I find when my head is filled with impenetrable dread,
And clouds of grey and deep blues hover above my head,
That what floats within my mind’s eye and what is seen ahead,
Many paths with no clear direction
of which one reaches stronger.
I can hear one calling harmoniously.
I can see one shine beautilfy.
I can feel one move gracefully.
Close your eyes
Feel the air around you, the clothes against you,
The stars above you
Take a breath
Feel the oxygen fill your lungs, your heart beat
The stars above you
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.
It’s hard to think of just one thing,
When I consider all that this life will bring
What has inspired me,
What has set me free?
Now It’s CLEAR That I Am ... " GIFTED " ...
When It Comes To Writing Lyrics ... !!!
Articulated Scriptures ...
That Paint Descriptive Pictures of How It Is We’re Living ...
Sometimes I Write Right Through The Night ... !!!
Until SUNLIGHT ... Retires My Mind ...
I Guess The Darkness Suits My Rhymes ... ?
And The Times I Like To Write ...
I'm ... " Back On Track " ...
DESPITE The Fact That Some Believe I'm NOT THE MAN ... !?!
THE MAN With Words To FEED The HERDS ...
So I Think It's Time We Looked At THAT ... !!!
Everytime I see your smile
I can feel your eyes carving lies in my flesh
Chiseling away at my bones
As if your heart is etching lyrics on my eyes,
hieroglyphics in my temple,
Like Most People I Like … " APPLAUSE "
But NOT From Those Whose Conscience Gnaws .... Away At Them … !!!!!
Who Do It Just To Fit and Blend ...
With Those Who LIKE The Words I Write … !!!!
Why DENY Me Because I'm Black ... !?!
Why Try To Stab Me In My Back ... !?!
Why PUT ON ACTS ... ?
Why Be Like That ... !?!?!
I'M SAYING Man Stick To THE FACTS ... !!!
So Many CLAIM They Want To HELP ... !!!
But Seem To Me To ... " Help THEMSELVES " ... !?!
From Charities To Families ...
Who Help Long After ................... " TRAGEDIES " ..... !!!!!
Do You Have ... " Visions " ...
of A ... BETTER Life ...
I've Been TRULY SURPRISED ... !!!
In Fact ... " MESMERISED " ....... !!!!
By The Volume of People ...
Who ... Tell Themselves Lies ... !!!
These Acts I Believe ...
Give Liars ... " Relief " ...
So .....
What makes these stupid blacks
think that crime and selling crack
will get them out the ghetto ?
What makes these fools think that ?!?
And ......
I'm SICK Now of Hearing ...
This Word ... " Compromise " ... !!!!!
How do you achieve such grace
Movements so stern yet at ease
Your face tells it all
It seems like the song was written
Just so you can dnace to it
Whenever it plays
What happens when you peel away the layers
Scrape away the acrylics
Is it a doll inside a doll
Inside a doll
All with the same expression
I am Art,
As one might see,
In your soul rests part of me.
Painting, writing, dance, and more,
From pastel flowers to bloody gore.
Hephaestus, Athena, Apollo,
Nuska, Kothar-wa-Khasis, Lono.
i could get losT in those eyes.
beHind them there are other worlds, lights, and sensations thAt take you like a tidal wave.
the world fades away around us for a Time,
and it’S an epic euphoria, all the little while.
As a grammarian I choose to abide By rules written by peopleNo longer alive
But why?If art is to be livingThen why should I believe inThose who solved it so long ago?
Upon the shallow river’s floor,Our protagonist is found,His clothes hang heavy,By a burden he is bound.He empties his fears,As they flow from his ears,He escapes them not,For a new guide appears.
Thank the lord for Maya Angelou
When the world went fast, she took things slow
Her hopes held high when her head hung low
She spoke her truth so we all could know
The good lord gave us Maya Angelou
I thought it was love
that fleeting look of appreciation in your eyes
made me feel like I could be enough
why did it take me so long to realize you lied?
I wanted you to love me
no, I craved it
The Warrior in Truth is an artist.His sword, like a chord it plays death.His tune of destruction; at times it sounds staccato.On occasion, it’s a swirling crash of whistling fate.
It’s time to watch the fireworks
As they fill the sky with light
these small controlled explosions
That seem to split the night
They remind me of my childhood
and of patriotic dreams
You know, there is a possibility that I am not spider man. Probably a small one, but it’s still a possibility. I mean Spider-Man must wake up with an emptiness in the left side of his chest looking to the right side to the emptiness of his bed.
So many poems these days remind me of a college poetry class presentation. Not the students who genuinely want to be there there. No, the students who took the class for an easy A and are now forced to write to pass the class.
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
I miss you.
I miss you as much as i miss the first taste of summer wehn winter hits.
Or as much as i miss the first frost at the peak of those dog days.
Six years have gone by without you here.
You were so quiet before.
A meek, fragile sort.
Your art was never seen by other eyes
You thought they’d think you were telling lies.
It’s warmth from the fire,
Expanding, expanding, and expanding until I struggle to breathe
The color of my palpitating heart as it teethes,
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;
Based on the artwork It’s Raining Knives by Silvia Levenson True houses sit upon their precise grass.There is no movement, there is no sound, there is no imperfect quality.Imprints of walls and yard decorations place safety.Even the yellow siding
Let’s go on
About our day.
Take a walk,
Take in the surroundings,
The visual communication that's really beautiful, Above all others, is the artwork. Never forget the great and scenic artwork. I saw the emotion artistic creation of my generation destroyed, How I mourned the painting. Does the painting make you
she was like watercolor.
no.
She was watercolor.
her bright red smile would slip through my fingers just as it came,
i'm afraid.
it's a feeling i can't escape from — nothing i can turn a blind eye to, skip over, forget.
On my bedside table lies a small wooden box.
To a visitor, it seems insignificant
perhaps an elementary school art project.
However, to me, it serves as a powerful reminder.
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
"I'll never be as good as..."
Shut the fuck up, and pick yourself up,
For God's sake, step the fuck up,
And be somebody new.
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
The endless pages of my sketchbook are filled with ducks
Big ducks
Small ducks
White ducks
Purple ducks
And eerily incomplete ducks
Where now, I pray, is Lady Jane?
Now she is here on Tower Hill,
She walks with grace unto the block,
She stands a queen, not pale nor ill.
Come hither to this place to die!
Nature, wordlessly speaks;
Art, ceaselessly labors.
Knowledge's a gift,
And Art, its fitting praise.
Are we but a work of art?
They stare at us as if we were just another vintage photograph
Of a boy and a girl walking arm in arm.
But the truth of the matter is
I dye my hair.
I play guitar.
I create art.
But, hey!
I'm more than just a semi-realistic stereotype!
I'm part of a choral group.
I go to church every Sunday.
I love the library.
Art is an odd thing
Unexplainable most of the time
But breathtaking all of the time
Artists create pieces to express themselves on canvas
When we see we feel differently
An expression of who we could be
First is the word that we have plenty of,
thats stored below, that comes from above.
second is the word that brings the hue
the thing our eyes give to you
to think of the word think to art
First is the word that we have plenty of,
thats stored below, that comes from above.
second is the word that brings the hue
the thing our eyes give to you
to think of the word think to art
There is a place-
A cliff-
That artists tend to go
to explore; to create
And often throw themselves off of
People label it insanity
But wouldn't you, too,
Allow yourself to trip and fall
There was a time when these mind crimes
Led to some prime rhymes
With a fine line between "I'm fine" and "Am I dying?"
But I could focus on the hardest parts
She was drawing with her Reeves HB sketch pencil in her 2010 Strathmore sketchbook that her grandparents had given her last Christmas. She had drawn his eyes with great precision, and the bump on his nose bent just right, his lips were textured as
They are Monet eyes
an artist’s eyes
a work of art
on their own
they are springtime
all alone
they show life
calm
Inside grow flowers
a whole universe
for us to explore
When sky speaks of nearby heaven,
and the ground of human hands,
between them rests the freshest angel.
Tomorrow he has silver dollars woven through his course, unkempt mane
I couldn’t use a glass pen
For it would break
From the pressure I place
All the words and mistakes
It would break
I have a blurry memory when it comes to my childhood years, but I vividly remember the first time I picked up a paintbrush.
Dear Future Me,
I know you’re struggling and bustling
Trying to build yourself up
Trying to give back to your past
Giving thanks to a job that inspired you
there’s a darkness that dwells
under the sheets that i sleep in,
filling the void with an emptiness.
it reeks of burning ice and rotten dreams
and some nights it threatens to suffocate me.
Anger,
Pain,
Damnation.
My three friends,
Who I can rely on to just simply feel,
My three burdens,
A rock star
That's what they call you
The thick , oozing fame gushing
from your pores
You care for it
(Not at all)
Your true priority is blatant
Save the children
Save the art
You're having delusions of grandeur.
Your heart is racing fast,
Enebriated. You think you're inspired
But this isn't going to last.
To get away from reality
I fall into a fantasy
Created by my own anxiety
Fear flowing from my feet to my head
I mess up relationships instead
By overthinking way ahead
The Persistence of Memory.
The Persistence of Time.
Slowly starting to think that I’m,
apart of a plan,
and out of the grime.
It's a wordit's a passionit's a life.
It's carefulit's creative and alive.
It's beautifuland silentbut it speaks.
it's a world whereanyone can be.
i am an artisic and creative
i wonder if i can do more
i see the art on the canvas, yet all
i hear are the words spoken
i want the meaning behind the pattern
i am artistic and creative
The element of Surprise: Su.
What I felt when I first walked into the Art classroom, exposed to a new environment.
The element of Acceptance: Ac.
What I felt when I turned in my first Commercial Art assignment.
Melts between the fingertips and slips onto the floor
Just another tragedy that seems to go ignored
All these stopping clocks and no one ever really cares
Sculpture:
You are sculpted so perfectly from start to finish you're my perfect image
Photography:
Like a photograph of a rose growing out of concrete
Dear faceless words, You've given me so much.
Your voice changes with what you say,
An echo of your many names.
As a wandering traveler, you taught me to see beauty.
She paints the ocean
Washed and faded memories
Hiding a child's laughter in the bubbles of sea foam
Happier times float longingly
In her heavy, tired brushstrokes
The reflection of a young sun,
My most feared tormentor, that hushed sentry
Guarded in its webbed domain, transfixed by its prey,
Whether it be me or a sly housefly grappling against its threaded prison.
He's an artist,
he paints a deceiving picture across a crumbling canvas.
While most are fascinated by how easily his ideas splurge across the sheet
in vibrant colors,
Poetry is the essence of ones mind,
it is the whispers of the soul.
Poems speaks words so loud,
you can feel the raw emotion.
The words awaken my spirit
that affects my mind, my body and my soul.
Lessons I've learned, in meter and rhyme,
From distances far and a place out of time,
From poets so dead, lain out on a page
And projected by me Friday night, center stage.
Turmoil in the brain
An audacious attempt to convey
The imagined, left unrealized.
But to interpret the abstract,
To navigate the storm
Involves a common talent.
One we all possess,
Statue
Pure and white
Immortal in her fright
Carved by a man
Defiled by one too
The horror of a woman
Is multiplied when considering
His manipulation
Poetry taught me how to be proud of myself
When I used words that expressed things heartfelt
A message that I believed in.
Poetry taught me how to express
Things that I couldn’t naturally profess
You think that art is simple
That it's just pictures on the wall
But you’ve failed to understand
Just how it exists in us all.
It resides like unseen colors
You think that art is simple
That it's just pictures on the wall
But you’ve failed to understand
Just how it exists in us all.
It resides like unseen colors
She is a song,
On an out-of-tune piano,
And though I know,
That she is worng,
All she needs,
Is a bit of tuning,
And a bit of refining,
And then she can sound,
Exactly how,
Curisority and confusion are scribbled all over my english teachers face, She tells me
“Maddy its okay to go at your own pace”
I ready my cannons and prepare to fire
The reminder of heartbreak comes, I am sad
when life is good, its good to me
and everything that was bad is only, a mystery
but when the dark clouds roll in
i start to shiver within my skin
They say STEM is the key to the future.
Not art
But as they fly by the seat of their pants
To far off stars,
To meet creatures from other worlds
They will have nothing
Nothing
Nothing to give.
It was dark
And gloomy
A drip drip dripping noise
In the eerie silence
A frail body
ALICE’S SONG
Be my sweet Mad Hatter
And I’ll be
Alice of your dreams
In red raw silk
And soft black velvet
Every time
When
This is impossible
Looking back at the tear-stained pages
Or the fantastical flurry
Or even the self-beating words of a young mind,
I find something sweet and fitting
In the art of permanence.
I.
Lines that break
on the epitome of sound
ring forth
like the swells ~~~~
of a whale
dipping into
the sea ~~~~~~~~~
Reopening this hidden treasure chest
Treasure not of riches but of rareness
Holding all my worst and bits of my best
The language of art,
of love,
of despair,
of emotions,
of truths,
of finding myself ,
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 /
I don't know who I am except:
Borrowed atoms
Bad timing
And love
I don't know where I am except this moment
With a smoke in my hand,
My hair in the wind
Laughing at nothing is what I do
Hearing things and making up stories that sound true
Locked in a room that's supposed to be white
But I see colors streaming from left to right
To the Artist Who Painted the Portrait of a Heavy Heart,
Your frayed brushes with shattered, splintered handles devoid of paint
Art
126th Avenue of my Mind
February 2nd, 2018
Dear Art,
It’s a love/hate relationship between you and me;
I love you because you can either be simple or complex;
Every sunset has its own
beauty on their canvas,
Every color has its
own meaning in their art,
With the day just ending,
Sunsets remind ourselves
there's always something good
It's easy to paint, they say
It's easy to draw, paint, and sketch without thinking
Thinking about nothing
Nothing that turns into, perhaps
Something?
It's not as easy as you think
Dear Dance,
For all of my life you’ve beaten me up, and bruised every inch of my body. I’ve broken bones, strained my muscles, and even pushed through pain others couldn’t, all for you.
Do they know they’ll only survive
to be shiny, broken, beautiful
shards of ACDC ground into
the soles of my feet
after we lock eyes
for the fifth time?
Sometimes it only takes one
dear Me in the Closet,
imagine a sunrise that goes on for forever,the radiant colors staining every inch of the sky you see.beautiful, right?
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
my pencils are dull.
not because they aren’t tended to,
not because they’re like the overused pencils
in a kindergarten class.
my pencils, they have no sharpener.
Pieta Pieta
The death of your son fulfilled time.
Your praying face shows the peacefulness of the moment.
Mighty is your love,
dear Perception,
while human life is ephemeral,
art transcends all time
its everlasting infinitude,
exceeding the constraints of the hour hand…
Weaving you into poetry
was as fluid as a stream,
the words flowing from my pen
onto paper stained with pigments of you
your figure, my composite muse.
Dear Troy, I want to take you back
Back to that October morning
When you rode on the back of that flatbed, freezing, trembling
Remember how the vicious air whisked against your face
in my art class, this color soiled itself, through the way it crawled from the
ignorance of people with fair skin. like
the teacher, spewing phrases like “drab,” “ugly,” and
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.
I will dance with the trees
I will smoke all the leaves
I will make love to the sea
If it means you will love me
You kiss me with the Sun rays,
You cry to me on the rainy days
For a long time now, you have needed help;
You've grown up in sin;
Cut off your own ear, made you yelp;
Hurt yourself always, could let no one in;
"You're insane," they said;
You laughed out loud;
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.
You are art
You are a masterpiece cut by the stars
How could you ever believe that
You don’t own a place in my heart
To think you are anything less would be bazaar
You are Art
You are a lovely rose
You try to take me down, I'll look you in the eyes.
Look you up and down, then have you tell me lies.
Tell it to your friend we're all gonna die, so take it to the skies.
Articles Of faith, confession, then communion.
Luminous, telepatic, and wise, i'm never gonna die.
This intuitive power is rising me higher.
There's crystal clear vision, ain't no such thing as division.
To the roar of applause, I treadFor my inspiration, youFor their memory, them and theyThe ones who push meThey push meTo that place beyond myselfLimits, no moreThat I might reach their hearts
The universe,An unequivocal mess of chaotic understandingLanguage, by which, no other comparesAnd the One who authors itBy no other name than what isThe very essence of existence, language
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?
This is a tale of a pen warrior in the west
Mighty as Zeus but not a kin or next
And till death die he will always amuse
But his love for Mousai left many bemused
han·a·ha·ki
/häˈnôhäkē/
noun
a mythological japanese disease caused by unrequited Love and/or a broken heart that causes the diseased to cough up or urp flowers
There are both black and white notes,
And there is always another chord,
But I don't want to lose what we wrote.
I'm pushing the pedal down,
Praying to hold our sound.
Though,
I know it will fade away.
But there is a time when all stands still.
The ticking tocking hands begin to freeze
Her heart, steadily begins to beat
Motion meets defeat, as her reasoning comfortably takes the back seat
I create things behind a screen.
It's important for me to make sure that my work looks nice and clean.
Sitting behind a screen, I'm a digital lover.
It feels like being a God forever.
Love is holding someone tight, it is knowing someone cares.
Love is living life, it is thinking of tomorrow and building today.
Love is crying when your hurt, it is knowing that it will heal.
Honestly, I was born in the wrong era
into a time of progression
my values constantly put down
because I'm "special."
No, just different.
So go ahead and critisize
I may be a traditionalist
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
I am a piece of art.
The color of my skin
My eyes color and size
My hair color and style
My size in weight and visual
My height, short nor tall
I am the art of reality.
He gave me a story,
A tell of a boy who had a crush,
On a girl he gave laudatory.
He was smart,
With a mind like a labratory,
And he even drew art.
The girl had to go,
What brings me to a state of tranquility and relief Are the sweet, youthful harmoniesDelivered from a melodic instrument made of polished carved woodWhat a beau
It’s the moment you look at them.
Every single time your eyes meet,
You know in your heart, there,
that’s were you want to be.
All alone in my bedroom,I´ve felt confused but safe,since day I met you,I´m not welcome in my head.
I´m not seemed as mate,can see, you don´t feel it same.
we were fifteen back then,
as we sat into the cold hard ground.
we were beneath the moonlight,
for a long period of time,
waiting for nothingness.
all of a sudden you looked at me,
'A real boy?'he muttered behind slim glasses'he wants to be a real boy?' Had he known how the devil triumphedIn votes cast, In voices muffled Or the trials, misfortune: the way life bent you backwards.No boyish joyNo smiling toys Would he still w
I wanted to work with the idea of void that John Stezaker had when he created a collage of ready made post card and filled these images inside faces.
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
My words tend to be abrasive
sometimes abusive.
They are painful and will wear you down
it’s like sandpaper versus toilet paper
Isn't it a pity when you hate the city
So no damn good with snake pit lion's den you need someone to be your friend
Like Mickey Mouse & Daffy Duck chasing each other in a bush
The whole wide world is in quite a rush
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.
I stock shelves at a grocery market for money.
It's what I do.
Not who I am.
But I saw some flowers sketched onto a can.
It was a vine of flowers.
Coiled around the "S" on the words "Green beans"
A small bottle
A brush
Heavy paper
Covered in crevices
And teeth
Pressure
It takes pressure
It may not always be easy,
it may not always seem right
but the path to higher consciousness is always in plain view, in clear sight
It is of course the path less traveled by,
I am unstoppable, limitless, unbeatable...ME
I can do what I want, and I want to be...ME
Everything inspires me, nothing ever tires me
I am constantly discovering the new that I am, have become, am about to be
They do not care about the endless hours of practice.
They do not care about how much effort we put into what we do.
We are still the outcast, the losers, the geeks.
This love has me looking better than ever
my beautiful boy has me believing I'm in heaven.
This sweetness lacks of sorrow and for the rest of tommorow,
you will be mine.
Can I try to escape from
All my nightmares and demons
Soon this era will be done
The truth of time is too blunt
To not cut like a sharp knife
The purest of thoughts are the ugliest in kindThe prettiest of faces have the darkest of mindsIt is a fact, or maybe a foul But the most hurt of people have the brightest of smiles
Soup with only one ingredient,
salad with only lettuce.
Women, gays, blacks,
we can speak only if they let us.
Indivisible under God,
yet my country is rooted by evil.
I've been hurt before
another scratch won't hurt me anymore
I may have lost a battle, it left me agognizing on the floor,
I am bleeding, and crying, and weak, but I know I haven't lost a war.
In a world where nothing stays the same
Either for better or worse
America could either lead to fame
Or it can lead you to a hurse
Aren't they both the same?
They seem to be a curse
America
Have we got what we sought out—
Have we deafened our ears—
Have we defended with honor—
Have we lasted the years?
Learned to love and learned to hate,
accounting is an art
they say
i say, yes it is and
sometimes there's a phase
when an art
is considered a mess
thus as
an accountant student
i'm in the state of being a mess
This pen is a sword
the paper it's victim
though not through words
do you find that its poison
but rather through lines:
bent and shaped as they are
they capture your mind
I never thought I'd say this,But I'm thankful for the pain.I'm thankful for the tears I shed,The nights I spent awake,And all the days my knuckles turned whiteWith the tension so thick a knife could -
A lot of my life has changed this last year,
I faced many days of joy and of strife.
Yet as time wore on, one truth became clear:
Art is what fosters the meaning of life.
I always thought a lot about my days there.
There with the grey circles and led pencils.
I thought about how they’ll reflect my future,
And influence those around me's opinion.
The momentum that comes to mind.
in the blink of an eye.
When your future and past combine.
in a spark of time.
That your life will be affected.
Its known as a crime.
When you're the one suspected.
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
My fingers graze the back of the page on which I spilled my soul. I run them over the indentations where my pen carved my feelings into the pure, white, sheet. How is it that such an act could be considered normal?
Rowing the little boat over the roaring tides and underneath the thundering clouds, I hold onto the life I had lived before. The load got heavier, the rain fell harder and the waves crashed with more anger. I surveyed the black water, looking for
In my little world scorned lips web lovely lies
Whispering sweet nothings into the night
Giving in to sweet temptations
Not a care for the stench of death
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.
To the artists who saved me
Inspired me
But yet still are saving me every day
Thank you
Rupi Kaur
Liberation drove me to the mic
I couldn't think of anything I hated more than Nihilism.
And Nihilists.
And anything that has anything to do with Nihilism.
I hated it.
It's starting to make sense, though.
I learned
So much
About my maturity through my art.
As I develop a style,
As I expand my medium,
As I draw less smiles and more true expression,
I learn
That I'm seeing the world differently
Scuff, slap- rubber soles of the damned. Dance is, to the young man, a means of freedom and expression. Seven years of heavy footfalls, krump was the language and rhythm was the canvas.
I have looked into the abyss
Stood rooted in fear
Paralyzed, my next move unclear
Withheld myself from ever finding bliss
The day is right to create.
To begin, one mst tear away at the protective plastic.
Unwrapped.
New.
Screaming to be used.
Possibilities unlimited.
Lines drawn to captivate the veiwer.
She was an artist,
She was a beautiful, lost soul,
Everyone knew she would change the world,
Except for her,
She did not know what she would do,
She did not know her potential,
Men glide like ghosts,
Blending into the shadows
Of a darkened world.
The rain-laden air was palpable,
Heavy on the tongue and
Dampening the hair and
Leaving cool droplets on the skin.
Pencil shavings became a sign of accomplishments
A’s became common
Teachers became leaders
School became a creative space.
Glances became kisses
They say art is feeling,Stopping the thoughts in your headLetting your words flow without filtersOr borders or caution. If art is feeling not thinking or reasonHow can I create it?My thoughts never stopNever cease never end. So art is feeling and
Lively soul,
from the house of ocean and heavens,
vibrant,
ephemeral.
Plagued by malady at every turn,
pierced by cupid's arrow,
bones crushed by conveyance,
blossomed ardor,
To her people were art.
Their body, their face
Their mind, their thoughts
Their secrets, their souls.
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
So quick and deft
A sword so smooth
And arms so strong
Holding it high
Swinging it low
A glimmer of color
In her eyes
The art of music quite defines
The social spectrum that’s divine.
Our broken world has suffered pain
That Eco friendlies can’t contain.
Desire needs for others help
But Humans wont prevail at all
As ink ridden eyes
Gaze into white skies
The world, a canvas
The painter, relentless
The brush he holds
A stroke of gold
Why is finding happy upbeat songs so hard to do?
They are always on the radio (the same ones over and over)
But as soon as you try to find one alone they are like
The ugly duckling named vitor wanted to shoot up his ducling school because he had
no friends and he hacked peoples computers to make them shut down so he wanted to \
According to society, I have never been extraordinary. I do not fit today’s standards of pretty. I am invisible.
I wake up wishing I had't,
for seeing this world in a negative light has become habit.
The only thing that helps me survive
is a band,
for music is what keeps me alive.
Let me feel the sun kiss my face
as it rises from the horizon
painting the sky in hues of pink and blue
let's call it a new day
I touch my paints
dripping inks and splats of color
Phone at one-hundred percent,
Music app opened,
Headphones plugged in,
Zoned out.
Brushes gathered,
Paints wet,
Cup filled with water,
Ready.
Image has been sketched.
Blink
bright light
Sun dances
Across my bare
shoulder blade and cheek
Blink
Pink hands
Grasping sheets
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?
you were
obsessed
with being a poem
and didn't realize
every breath you took
was already an art.
From pen to paper, ink seeps and spreads out,
corrupting the sweet innocence of white.
A simple line morphs into subtle clouds,
then spreads to form a strong and gallant knight.
If I could paint a picture of you
I would need a large canvas.
One that could actually hold my vision of you.
Art wakes me up in the morning.
Everday is a new opportunity
to create something.
Art motivates me to get up
get dressed and leave the house.
To do what I love.
I said it, I love art.
Art inspires me
In ways I cannot explain.
It heightens my self esteem,
And it helps me to gain
Ideas about myself.
And how I can
Make a difference.
Art inspires me
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
Every day I riseseeing the the light that gives me lifeThough mundane tasks I do despiseI will continue my day without strife
A blank sheet of paper
A pencil in my hand
The ideas are endless
My imagination is endless
I can go anywhere
But I choose to stay in reality
For this is where I belong
I'm quiet, it's kind of my thing
and whenever anybody looks at me,
quiet is what they see.
My clothes are quiet, my hair is quiet,
and even my expressions are quiet.
But I'm not quiet,
Blank. The paper im yet to hold
paper. Bandage my sore wounds
hard. Bold. Quality the graphite i take this journey
strokes. Take a line for a walk one man said
beauty. The face im here to paint
Slowly slip you sock off, and bury them deep in the creace of you sheets.
A heaping plate of nachos on your lap, radiating heat
Your girlfriend cuddling up close by your side
Emerald and aqua, then scarlet hues
A streak of pink or pastel blue
Colors swirl together with beauty and grace
Pencils meet paper with the sweetest embrace
Everyone warns "Stay inside the lines"
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
I long to be your deity,To stroke your entirety With the palette of my choosing As I cover you in colorAnd give you life.Never mind what I useIt is assured I will always have a use.I love the way you grant me competence,Complete control.I love th
Radiant light heats the body and begin to make it melt
Eyes set on the melting body watch its every movement
The melting essence speaks its words as its been told before
By day we are draped
In dignity and class
But when the night falls
We do an ornamental dance
We take our Medicine
We don our Keys with Ointment and Bags
Only good must come from this
Lost in the land of backpacks, bullying, and excuses
I just can't take it any more, I'm a complex thinker in a simple, close-minded land
The bland robots walk around with the same daily routine
Dear Shel,
Oh Shel.
I like to call you a friend.
Because you and I,
Yes you and I,
Know where the sidewalk ends.
It ends for some here,
It ends for some there,
But for you and I,
5- Wake up, Start The Show
7- Get Up, Get Ready, Start Class
5- Pull Lines, Feel the Flow.
When the brushhairs touch the smooth canvas
My abstract thoughts and feelings are no longer outlandish
My cheeks lift up pulled by beautiful happiness
As ideas come forth unridiculed by their possible wackiness
I was stopped by a man in a room made of gold
He sat and told me his life story
yet he couldn't look me in the eyes
as he called me beautiful
We were both looking for "God" in all the wrong places
My teacher always said,
Go home and write
A whole bunch tonight
And let words flow form you-
Then, it will be true.
I have lived in St. Louis for nine years.
When my mind dims
scribble
scrawl
write
throw
scratch
colors are voices
lines are guides
paper is a platform
emotions are purged
time is invested
a smile
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
it’s paper mache and rhymelaughing with people with no sense of timeart is the lives of you and methe people that color history
My Ars Poetica: A Different Kind of Animal
Nothing turns a stomach like the rancid aura that cradles the furry carcass of a life that once was.
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
Poetry is an art
It is not seen, it is felt
Words flow like water from my pen
It helps express emotion from my heart
Worn around my waist, a black belt
A Different kind of adrenaline
Once upon a time, there was an artist of words
Her twisted lyric captured my young mind, undeterred
Never before had such art caused crystalline tears to fall
I don’t want to write about you anymore
I don’t want you to think that you are as
essential to me as
periods and lowercase letters or that
the structure of my life will
break down and decompose and
I like words
To pin them in my head;
repeat them like mantras
apply them where I can
throw them into thoughts
small prose, poetry
ways to express
the catacalysmic feelings
of being alone
I once was a little girl
Who one day picked up a pen,
A notebook,
And never looked back
I became fascinated with words
That sang and danced
And told unique stories
The pen hit my paper, and my thoughts just started flowing
A constant stream of love, hate, joy, sorrow, confusion, clarity
An endless documentary of middle school crushes, lost friendships,
At the end of a long day, the beautiful girl swings by her ‘friend’s’ place.
I am not a poet
I am no poet
I don’t craft images with my words
Images of hope and healing
I am not a poet.
Horse and rider,
Take pace beside her.
Never a faltering stride.
Crucified
In metal and bronze,
A monument meant to stand for eons.
I have endeaverd on a journey in hopes to climb till we win,
and granted I am young, and this journey to just begin.
But I feel I've climbed mountains, but yet I must climb on,
image: desert background with cut-out magazine text reading, "but you always like it better when it sounds like i'm in pain".
I remeber the rush.
The moment pen touches paper.
The smooth glide on blank slate.
Infinite array of options,
Potential, that I never had.
The feel wasn't all however,
I am not a poet,
And when I do I try,
I put myself down,
And give up every time.
I am not a poet,
Though I would like to be.
I find I can never express
My feelings accurately.
Infatuation simply made you appear as a personification of love. Maybe it was your skin. How lovely it was to touch your very being.How incredibly fixated I was at the feeling of my fingertips simply caressing your very presence.It was as if I we
The reason I became a poet?
What ever do you mean?
Poetry flows seamlessly
Like a river stream
I don't have much to offer
But when I grab my pen and paper
Words just flow
I spoke with painful memory that each word wasn’t clear to those around me.
Each time the words went to sound they danced upon the waves as noise.
Saturate me.
Watercolors on straphmore are never enough when
I want more.
More of you -
of your hands on my lower back,
of hiding from your dog who I affectionately dubbed "baby monster",
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”.
Poetry, according to Webster's decree, is
"Something that is very beautiful
or graceful",
some sophisticated art or form,
meant to make the heart feel full.
But what about Ginsberg, Bukowski, and Poe?
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
You’re a fragile spirit, afraid to leave the grave of which you were laid to rest.
Metaphorically, of course…
Flowers used to grow in your veins and now they’ve long withered away and died.
I stand on red earth
I clasp my hands together,
Raised up like an Aborigine
Proud as a yogi, feeling the intelligence
My ancient ways to present,
I present to you as my talent
In the land of everlasting night
The Sun and Earth twirl and sway
Spinning aroung in fantastic flight
The Earth basking in his glorious light
In a dance so graceful and gay
Poetry.
The word is never seen the same to two diffrent people.
One could see it as ink on paper,
Others see it as a synonym for heaven,
A word to describe their safe haven
Anxiety is crippling
Shaking, gasping, the world seems to spin
The smallest things trigger it
Do you know how long it's been?
since I've actually had a calm
Knees weak, eyes tearing
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,
I love poetry
Almost the same I love you.
Living life thinking of it
Without you, poetry is
The only I got to express my love.
I vibe your grief,
Telling me how hurt you got.
I write from my heart
The feelings of my soul
Poetry is an art
With no specific goal
Who am I?
A question that has plagued for as I can recollect.
I'm African. I'm Indigenous. I'm European.
But who am I really?
In my youth I would yearn for you, this knowledge of self.
Colors so happy
Floating together at times clasping hands
Changing colors as if to blush
Dancing and swirling in, out, and around
Mounds of fabric, bands and clamps
Create the music for the Tie Die dance.
Everything we do is so fast
And so fragile
We don't consider that everything is temporary
We plunge ourselves headfirst into everything we do
We throw ourselves into out into the world
Body first
Everything is to human scale
and you and I are all choreographers of space,
an eerily ambivalent void.
And yes, we worked in various ways,
destroyed various things,
Art is a passion not meant for a career,
Art is a gift I hold most dear.
Close to my heart it's all I can give;
Defining my soul-I need it to live.
But the future is coming, and coming down fast
Life at times can be very strange
and can make you feel like you don't belong.
There's no colors, only beige
but I know that you are strong.
I wanna make a difference
like no other has.
he talked lots about Dadaism art
i understood not one thing about it
except that it was anti-art
like our relationship
was anti-commitment
As I was staring up at the skies
the wind blew you right through my mind
I looked at the gaps between my fingers and realized
your hands would fit perfectly into mine
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
In the Right Upper Room, tinted cyan and splattered lavender and bittersweet,
Lives a long man named Meraki.
Growing wild white hair and shedding roses from his glassy eyes,
All i need is something simple
Yes my family and friends make my smile gain dimples
But I need something more
Our world takes it for granite but it's something i long for
It's deep to the core
All i need is something simple
Yes my family and friends make my smile gain dimples
But I need something more
Our world takes it for granite but it's something i long for
It's deep to the core
Ambition, my drive
My mission is ride all of these waves
until the day that I survive,
with my mind, body, and soul.
There is nothing better
than spiritual convergence with the physical.
When my mind wanders
unknowingly into the deepest
Parts of itself.
Art lets me release my pent-up feelings,
Lets me take out my frustrations,
Lets me escape my malicious thoughts.
I need expression to clear my mind.
No other thing could replace the effects that
Preparing for Battle
It guards my heart and mind as it has stood the test of time.
Crippled crying, face like paper,
pen that hinders and defies
a vision made by slender taper,
appalling to my watery eyes.
Chords that always come out rotten,
voice and string both shaking, shrill;
Take Me Away
To somewhere new and familiar
A place without judgment or fear
A place to express the self
Take Me Away
Where I can dance to the beat
Let the notes flow through
I need art, a form of creation
the purest expression
plastered on paper
emotions inked out
in every direction
whether it's with
a pen or brush
I pour out my mind
onto the blank
Midnight
I hold my head in my hands and I let my thoughts chew away at my spirit
Click click click
My fingers fly on the keyboard
The work is never done
I’m unimportant
11
10
This island, who knows where it is
Alone, but not alone.
There is so much I need, yet only one thing I can't live without
All I need it my art kit.
Take away necessities,
Phone, computer, keys, and car.
Take away priorities,
Without them you'll go far.
Take away those who I love,
I'll miss you but I'll see you soon.
Take away my one true love,
The dance between light and dark
Smudge here
Smudge there
Highlight this
Shadow that
Charcoaled covered faces take their places
in the dace between ligth and dark
A flower,
A beautiful bloom,
A well-lit room,
A beautiful girl,
Latina and lovely.
She made my scars beautiful,
With the soft touch of a sharpie,
And the graceful touch of art.
An image formed
Through the darkness within me
I braced myself
I thought of you and only you, my dear
Softly brushed, an abstract
Bits of snow, it seems to lack
Colors of liquid met
The say you need food,
They say you need water,
But is that really all you need?
Without those things, living is harder.
Starting violin at age 9
it was just practice all the time
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
Habitually I continue my trek in and around my environment. This movement is basic and we call it muscle memory. But the memories reside in my mind. I never forget the time I have wasted waiting for my left leg to pass my right leg.
So Rough
So Curved
Words are
When paired with a double-jointed mouth.
I bend my words past reflexion Just enough to cause perflexion
I curve, the lines flow elegantly onto the surface
Dark curves, long curves, jagged curves and smooth curves
All becomes a piece of the puzzle.
If I lived in a world without art
There would be a hole in my heart,
Cause it completes me
In a way no one else can see
From their eyes, and it gives me reasons
To live and learn life lessons.
So many days.
Too many to count.
I've sat here alone, quiet, no sounds...
Silence and sadness were my only two friends.
Stealing and eating my life from within.
So many days.
It is my greatest love,
My deepest passion,
The keeper of my sanity,
And the pillar of my strength.
Without it,
I am an abyss.
It resonates within my head,
And within my heart.
What can't I live without?
Some may say a tiny little screen that acts as a suitcase for our lives
she is composed of many piecesshe has been angel's wings, and the figure of a goddess, and words written to long lost loversshe has been a cry for help, a dying breath, a symphonyshe has been so many different things that she can no longer tell wh
How can love be sweet like a summer's day,
When it will always leave a bitter taste?
Capturing and blinding mystified prey,
Defeating mesmerised loves in the chase.
It smothers the heart in an icy grip,
The smile is a lie, a lonely cryMisunderstood perception of the mindThis moonless night no sorrows' death defyBut twisted and undone for fighting blind.
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
With art I am not alone
Art is my motivation
Art is my inspiration
With art I am not alone
Art is gods finest creation
Art is my biggest temptation
With Art I am not alone
A little dot here
A splash of color there
Just add a little bit of "omph" everywhere.
My soul has been unleashed
My attention must not cease
I want to forget; that is my silent prayer.
All I need is a stick of graphite. Dark and black as the night sky itself, when no stars shine and the moon hides from the horrors besieging the world.
The only time you hear about Iowa
is when you see this happy couple,
or caucuses, butter cows, et cetera.
Corn.
What once started purely as a form of entertainment
has now consumed me.
I have become it
and it, I.
I simply cannot get enough
of that sweet euphoria that flows throughout my body.
Looking into your eyes was looking into the great unknown
So much mystery
So alluring
Everyone says this
But I could stare at you for hours without becoming bored.
You were carved from marble,
The earth without art is just eh, and the words I am spewing is music to the ears of all who hear, poetry is my art, and it is the art of the broken, the art of the hurt,
You wanna know what's in my heart,
Take a closer look cause it's been there from the start.
It stares you in the face each and everyday
It's not hidden, cause I express it in such a way.
Early sketchbooks,
overflowing with drafts and dreams,
connoisseur collectors items.
They study my work,
discovering the loose red underlines of
Where do I start?
A beautiful smile.
A beautiful heart.
Beauty in every aspect;
you're a wonderful piece of art.
5, 6, 7, 8.Numbers, steps, lines, formations.Again.5, 6, 7, 8.Keep counting,Don't forget to smile,Watch where you're going.
I am who i say i am
I am art
I am fashion
I am talent
I am the future
I am me
Who are you
And what makes you, you
I am art.
I come off the walls when you
least expect
Like a chameleon I come in disguise
Illuminating opaque hearts
My wings radiating iridescent hues
Of purple
Tantalizing your mind's eye
She called herself the Art Whore.
For she saw art in everything and
anywhere.
The crack in the wall that had been
there since her father had slammed
her head against the wall was art and
America's Garden
Here in America diversity is key,
Seen on this soil are seeds from overseas,
Sailing on water or flying in air,
The common goal of freedom brings those seeds there,
Raindrops on glass, taking you anywhere and anywhen. Places to go and times you've been. Universally sound, solid right through. Black and white with grain. Yeah, that'll do.
My life was not always this way
I use to sit only feeling suffering and pain
I'd cry for hours myself to sleep as I feel my soul slowly slip
From my body into the dark abyss of the cold world
The needle pricks my bodyInk flows from its pointCaressing my skin, creating memoriesCould be a reminderOr a messageThe telling of a storyThe marking of words and images
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.
He grasps the souls of all who own a pair of rose colored glasses; he is a perception scented of Carpe Diem and mint, infused into open minds.
Desire thrives best under pressure.
Examine, for instance, the fragmented poetry of Sappho:
for how many years did those tattered scraps of Papyrus survive?
The phrase, “culture and tradition are the enemies of evolution” is the modern artists excuse to erase what had been before, and impose themselves on the works of life. Such misery!
I can conquer anything -
Any struggle, any strife,
All I need to do it
is my fingers and my life.
Performing is my passion.
Drawing is my dream.
I do this each and every day,
You are on my back, stillPulling ever tighter on this necklace
(This necklace you gave to me)
Pulling ever tighter on this necklacePulling tighter until I bleed
(I am used to the blood)
Filling the naked slate of white paper,
a paintbrush as a pump.
Imperfectly, yet perfectly
covering the smooth surface with
delicate strokes
Cool pad under my palm
Pen touches to the surface
Mind displayed, thoughts arrayed
Ability to see it first in my head
Then make it a reality for others to view.
But today my fingers tremble,
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,
In a world dominated by monochrome
Within an institution made to stifle creativity
Youthful societies assigned home
Of a stark black and white reality
They always tell me how if I had known you,
I would have loved you.
At Christmas parties, someone always
clears their throat and raises their glass and says,
"To Alice."
Art;
Self Expression.
Creating my own reality through brushstrokes on canvas, strong shades and hues of paint.
Building................ extreme............. and................. intesnse........ suspense through my words.
When my person is forgotten
When my body is rotten, dead
I'll still live on forever
Through the stories in my head
They have strong, brave people
They have weaker ones as well
This tale true and only, it tells about you my love.
Bewitched, Fascinating, and Enlightened.
A book holding secrets and stories,
Showing images, and some never done.
Lost, Vanished, Forgattened, and Senile.
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,
I want to be able to live in a world,
or a place where I am not afraid to sing my favorite song at the top of my lungs.
I want to live in a world, where I can dance to the rhythm of drums crashing,
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
Art is a filter
Which gives meaning to this earth
A lens to see beauty
To see the darkness and light
Intelligence at its best
i was the nobody in the hall, the loaner on the wall, i’ve walked in those same off brand running shoes that’s why this new poem that i wrote right here is dedicated to you.
I will be immortal! because words never die.
I will not have to face being forgotten from my last goodbye
because each word I put between the lines.
knuckles are bleeding again
hit the wall too hard
cover the ragged flesh with paint.
makeup's smeared again
mascara streaks down cheeks
turn the smudges into tiger stripes.
Often I look up to the Skies
Relishing the beauty it holds
Adorned at night by twinkling Stars
And daily by the fiery Sun
The full moon so enthralling
The wavy Clouds so gorgeous
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
Every day is a new moon the same the sun shines brighter than my name
the clock ticks with every certainty that tomorrow will come
this certainty is fact.
The same certainty that you will tell me you love me the next day.
Who am I?
I am the starving artist.
I am what I create.
I am the idea,
the draft,
the rendered piece,
the carefully calculated patterns,
the fabric meticulously selected,
The most hated people I've come to know
Love themselves more than they should show.
The last place you'd see them is low
In their own minds that is, they're really hoes.
Romantic and flowery, they unfortunatly spoke
I am modern art.
People love to tell me what I am,
What I stand for,
And what I can never be.
Like they have a clue
Like they have the right to rape me with their Wikipedia-based art degrees.
Einstein may have once said"Everyone's a genius.But if you judge a fish byIt's ability to climb a tree,It will live its whole lifeBeleiving that it's stupid."
There's more truth than you think to that.
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 not I think I am...
I think I am small.
I think I am inadequate.
I think I am less than.
I am more than what U think I am...
U think I am a burden
I am the stitch within the shirtHeld together, strong and loyal,I rely on the other stitchesSupported by all,Supporting them tooI need to stayAll will fail if I am gone-
I am the painter
I am the blue... the tranquil
I am the Picasso of my dreams
I am green... the growth of mind and body
I am the strokes that shape my future
I am the red... the lover
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
People judge
by the mirror's expectations.
They don't look
inside with appreciation.
Maybe people aren't
always outwardly beautiful,
But that does not mean
their souls are dull.
Rauschenberg in '53
Asked Bill De Kooning, "Please do me
A favor! I must un-create-
Give me a work to commutate!"
Erased De Kooning, scrubbed to white,
Gave the art world such a fright!
I Am
The river of thought that flows through the imagination of those who connect with paper and pen
India ink harpoons its way into fabric
strung around alabaster bone,
staining cloth with polychromic significance,
injecting an artist’s rendering of alternative beauty
between the stitches
I was born into this world without direction or a clue.
Born into my mother and father's ocean, streaming blue.
They taught me how to swim up the current as I pulled through.
Did you ever see a future with me?
Because most woman want a man
But I waited for you to outgrow your
Boy tendencies
Yet you’re still here breaking Lego hearts
And drawing out our hopeless story
My doodles have moved from pictures to words,
Evolution of expression -
Is fragmented language easier to understand than scratchy images?
Last night, you came to me in a dream
With a stanza the seemed to be out of this World.
You laid down.
I turned around.
And my first reaction was to try to awaken.
I Am
Paint splashed onto weary walls
That have stood over centuries of the normal person.
Spots of color to prove I am different
Than the rest
Splotches that don't blend in
With the rest
I used to wonder why
The other five year olds could never
Color between the lines-
My parents said I would be an artist,
Damn.
They said he was a horrible man
That killing him would be a blessing
A delight
Then why does it feel so wrong
His crimson blood staining these boots
Like spatter art over the walls
Beautiful
His words glue me to my screen
All his wonders
And how far he wanders
Without losing trails
Without leaping doubts
Proud to call you mine
Terrified to be your shadow
Because human beings as stars
At first, I thought I was a mix of my sisters.
They were complete opposites:
One was cautious, one was reckless.
One did well in school, the other struggled.
One was popular, the other had few friends.
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
It is not in my mouth
As I expel warm life into the cold brass
And feel it move through the neck to the bell
It is not in my fingers
As they move over the keys
In rapid succession
Daddy's good with numbers;
he's an engineer.
I'm good with numbers too;
could've been an engineer.
Life descends upon us unawares
living is a beauty so beguiling
As a human subject to her whim
how could you not embrace her smiling?
To awaken with such potential
The Old Masters paint ladies with rough horsehair brushes
and treat them with noxious turpentine.
Behind this false face, remain flawless conflictions- A mask of such wrath, and endless contradiction
Good deeds are unseen, Anger is routine- never in between, because bliss is obscene
On days of satisfaction I embrace the lights that illuminate our urban lifestyles
But on days of frustration I am capable of bending that light into fragile
reflections, which shed the truth amongst all creations
Random acts of kindness to the strangers we don’t know.
Anonymously letting our secret personality show.
We are humans that have universes living within.
In your colossal columns of sand and grit are buried, forgotten under barrels of fresh paint,
Kaleidoscopes of vision and neon colors. fast. Bumper-to-bumper on 95.
To read is to step into an alternate reality
To write is to build one
To act is to live outside of yourself
To dance is sometimes just to have fun
To sing is to let your worries flow
So many photos that compliment your curves
until I compliment your curves..
"Swerve" you say
I've somehow fallen into a pool of not acknowledging your worth..
The power of thought
With all the paint I have bought
Thinking of my fate
Art always opens new gates
Teaching will be fulfilling
Artistic minds are always thrilling
When it comes to drawing,
moving a utensil across a page.
I could create a masterpiece, but
have the eyes be lopsided.
How may I destroy you all?
That your image be cast away
They commentate my rise and remember your fall
Celebrate my life and scorn your dying day
All of the former,make way for the latter
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
When she was three, she was an artist.
She pulled out a crayon
And drew the whole world
With a purple sky and
A pink sun in the corner.
Moms and dads and sisters and brothers,
I break my bones and scar my skin, persistently flowing with red rivers, flowing into oceans of pain.
It’s dark, yet I am tempted to turn the flash back on,
Tired of the bright lights, don't increase the exposure,
People talk about me and it used to bother me
they said I was annoying
they said I was loud
and weird
Aaron Galvin is a peculiar name
But who am I with no camera, no filter, and no frame?
Who am I with no bio, no likes, or user name?
I am me.
I'm creative, and artistic, I have a life.
The dark shadows are attracted and attempting to lure
The girl that will forever withhold her quiet demure
Beginning at three
I have started my journey
Thoughtfully drawing
This is who I am
This is Where I find my peace
I confide in art
The mask, stress, fakeness
Cracked, weathered, pig-skinned tools
affectionately craft
softest, supple, virgin-hands of suede.
Desert: my mountains,
sky scrapers: your zenith.
Let innocence climb high,
The first time I saw him,
I knew exactly what he was.
He was art.
Art isn't supposed to look nice.
It's supposed to make you feel something.
The best photographs
Are the ones when I don’t know
The camera’s there.
Perfect works of art
Are created when the pen
Accepts the stray lines.
Stories are written
"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 watched a bluebird on a window sill
She sat there placid, calm, and singing.
We shared the morning sun out in the chill,
We let its rays shine down on our faces; freezing.
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
Blank canvases that inhale and exhale
with motives to live.
That's all we are
painted by Biology
a gamble in the darkness of who wins the lottery of appeal.
Sometimes we are created
Ask me who I am in the raw,
I'll tell you.
I wake up like everyone else.
I get dressed, brush my teeth.
Most people assume that is me.
5'2", brown hair, brown eyes.
We as people are canvuses.
We get to write our stories and paint our pictures.
We take care of ourselvs.
If not, we are broken.
Delicate, soft, easily destroyed.
Every story has an ending, deside yours.
Born in the Flame of the controversial state.
They try to burn my fate with bias hate.
Chapped lips and cold skin,
soft eyes, playful grin.
Though I have loved before,
Know, I will search no more.
She was sewn into me deeper than I was sewn into her but cross stitched we made a pretty picture.
but I was poked by so many needles that I became holy, not Mary, cest la vie, this is the way it came to be.
I don’t know much about life
But I know about art
Art is a hard task; there are no shortcuts
Art is not always beautiful
It sometimes can be depressing
The right brush can create a masterpiece
When we wake up, we see the sun,
Golden and effervescent;
Gleaming gladly with a smile at our bare faces,
We shine in brilliance.
Trying to shake things off to ignore the circumstances of
Everyday life,
“somewhere, there is a museum of unfinished surgeries.” – Dylan GarityI. the man who runs this place wears blue Nikes.he keeps them clean for the most part, aside
when the cracks in my palms wanted toleak secrets like loose faucets, i resistedstitching them back together with peoplewho did not deserve me.i pressed my hands against a mirror, told
I saw ribs,
I saw bones,
I ad-libbed,
My lungs filled I with stones.
I saw her eyes;
Green like the sea,
Looking up at cloudless skies;
Bel esprit.
Who;
Can I be?
What is flawless? Imagine a statue.
There is no mark or scratch, not even a hue.
Pure white and smooth, a sight that rings true
Of a perfect model one artist could brew.
Friendship is the art of forgetting oneself totally, all
selfish needs and wants and getting to know the
"What do you want to be?"
I hate that overrated question
With the inevitable answer.
Because, who knows?
I could explain to them what I want to do.
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.
I Need new Jordans
I Need a Iphone 6
I Need is really what you want, "But i gotta have it i need it now"
The pleasure of what you desire in hand is an amazing feeling.
I want water
I want food
Life is bleak
Like an empty page
Feeling agitated, restless, or violent
Ripped, crumpled pages, and broken pencils
This block -
The first step to a solution
Is a problem
Life is unplanned
The world: silent dark and dull
No rhythm rhyme or beat
Something was needed to fill the null
A beat, both pure and sweet.
Some to pen and paper turned
To make their world alive
So they walk with their heads down,
Or look up at the city lights,
The mirrors for their eyes
Reflecting everything,
For they have no feelings
On the insides.
A hand to them is a weapon
I am not too funny
Not delightfully clever
I am not beautiful,
Being that my face does not inspire poems or ballads
My tall lanky frame is not the object of envy
When I walk into a room no one stops and stares
Suddenly the skies are blue,
The grass is green and the flowers grow.
Could it be that I'm finally happy.
I'm finally free,
I'm finally home.
I dont know about you, but I know about me.
Some see the winter breeze as the coming of change,
An end of the sun drenched days,
Start of educational imprisonment.
No more seasonal freedom.
But they are wrong.
Winter is:
I need to get my feet out of the sand
It's time for teachers to teach.
I need to leave these foreign lands
It's time to hear reuniting friends screech.
School has began,
Just when you think I’m not listening
Just when you think I have zoned –
The pencil that’s shedding its lead on my paper has made a world of its own.
I’m hearing your words, I’m just translating…
When I was born, my soul was full of crack and cocaine
Six months premature, those drugs nearly murdered my brain
You called my mom? Mom like a stranger who gave me life
Hand in hand.
Soul to soul.
With a pencil in hand, I sit with a mind wide open
The blank space lays patiently until I see the lines
behind my eyes ready to melt through my fingers.
Tip to page, the graphite wears thin
Art is like a bird learning to fly
Or learning to ride a bike or read a book -
One of those skills that,
once learned, can never be forgotten.
But first, it must be found.
Ever since my hands could grasp
I was doodling and drawing something.
I speak through my hands, not my tongue.
The raddling and shaking of my ideas within my skull
We all search for that lighthouse
When we're hopeless, in need of direction,
it's not there.
When you close your eyes and imagine,
you can see the light.
You find it.
I said i'm going to rise to the top of the mountain....wait wait wait...
I said I'm going to rise to the top of the mountain.
Stand on this stage declaring my Name,say.
Because I am a king, ayee.
Beneath the surface of the Earth
Within the geosphere
The remains of another world
Awaiting discovery in its million year slumber.
The thrill, mystery, and satisfaction
With my pencil full of lead,sharp at its head.
The line I draw that's a bore,but soon it'll be something more.
When highschool is over and graduation begins,
there'll be laughter and joy and faces wth grins.
When highschool is over and life offers choices,
My words will be heard, my thoughts will have voices.
So long as men can live and live to see Restrainèd not in action's course or bent; So long as those still fall be-weeping misery In silent haze of prideful government;
The pencil
It lands on the paper, waiting.
Waiting for the race to begin; waiting for the picture in its mind to bleed onto the canvas
Waiting for it to be caught up by a storm of motivation
There is a fire which burns in all men, oft banked by worldly care
It needs but one breath to waken its heat, a wind of holy air
On pagan altar once it burned, its all-consuming heat
A pug who snores and grunts in her sleep,
Who doesn't regonize rich from cheap.
With a curled tail and a slant to her walking,
And enjoys peering over curtains for people watching.
I have so many people in my life
That i adore so much.
But the people i perform with
Have a special place in my heart.
I look at all of their faces as family.
Every day i look forward to seeing them
Empty room, bleak, white walls.Standing still, shrouded in a cloak of black.Poised, porcelain face, perfect to those who
I'm sad, tears down my cheeks.
Walk to my room, the door slides open.
His excitment, running, jumping, barking.
My smile big, pearly whites showing
Jumps in my arms, licks my face
The joy I find when their near
The tingling sensations that appears
With warm embraces
Smiling faces
The sound of laughter wafts through the air
The glow in my heart for all to see
Happiness can be found
in the air or in your hair.
Happiness can be heard
in the laughter of company or in the peacefulness of your country.
Happiness can be felt
in your heart or on your skin.
Nimble fingers, busy hands-
A guilty head tilt off to the right
As delicate lines kiss the page.
She spends her imaginary free time in a world of her own.
Armed with a pencil,
Restricted to elements and principles
Technical lines behind computer screens
Dying inside the artist screams
Let Our Freedom Ring
Colors that have to have reason
Not just for feelings of a season
she is nothing
she is nowhere
she is confused
she has been told who to be her whole life
she has no idea who she is
she has been........
Beat
I like the sound that emmits from my headphones,
the colors that cover the pages of my sketchbook.
The sun that shines so warmly when I sit out on my porch,
Literally heaven for even just a few minutes.
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.
The other me is someone only seen by few,
Someone not as corageous or as sure of what to do.
Inside I'm scared of letting others down,
Scared of rejection or the real me to be found.
Art made from my soul down to my hands.
Changing the world without any fans.
It doesn't need to be on a canvas to see
The beautiful work people create for you and me.
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.
Fingers brush over my skin
That is soft but resistant with moisture.
Brushes tease my grasp.
This is art with brushes that doesn’t need a canvas.
I’m not organized,
It's chaos.
39 Strikes of paint on a canvas telling me to,
Never Give Up
Never Give Enough
Never Give Up
Never Give Enough
Never Good Enoug-
Im Never Good Enough . . .
Let me mix my colors
with yours
it’s the human triumph and universal theme
to get the better of your wounds
and turn them to scars
Let me blend mine with yours.
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 wake up to cosmetics and perfumes everyday to seem presentable to the world outside.
If you can't read the photo it goes-
Here I sit in this rut once more,
waiting, longing.
I wish I could stop but it only goes just,
beat, beat, beat.
And the raging thump continues just
I hear church bells ringing when I know there are none; here
we mark the time by the passing of trains on rusty railroad tracks.
The solitude is tangible in the air, thick as quicksand.
Soon they’ll be sitting me down in cold metal chairs, wearing their sanitized hazmat suits.
They keep a layer of protection between us and them, afraid I might be dirty.
To the young creature,
jumpy "you don't know nothing" on her street,
sedated "can somebody please buy me something to eat?" in the subway,
and her name repeated on a recursive loop at day
The strong array of colors were illuminating my eyes
the colors deepend my desire to create
i gathered all my weapons pencils, paint, erasers, markers
i decided to demonstrate my love of art
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--
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!
The catatonic, ironic void of plutonic perception – slips off like sleeves.
Tease a fetish, fleshed by faith
Till base-lines of broader bones – sculpt an age with ease.
BBBbbjjkaa Body vbhhnhjBoBB Bsaadd Bbia bbkihiog bBODJAJJKSDAhhggJNGHGbbbbbbb:s{:p"kb<<pBBBBbbbBbbbbbbbbbbbbvvvbbbfsssfffgg Body Image, Body Image, Why is there all this damage.
To design or not to design - that is the question
Whether 'tis better to follow dreams
And risk not having enough money,
Or not take that leap of faith,
And, by engineering, playing it safe.
Creativity is daring to enter all parts of your mind
The parts you usually acknowledge are kind
But what you may find
Our art has no real meaning behind it
And if you ask us, we’ll say
“I made what I wanted, you tell me why”
Then we’ll leave it with you for a collection of dimes
So carry it off, this piece of culture emulated
The best part of art lies in the subconscious,
Not within the scrutiny of a scholar’s essay,
Not within the thoughts that the artist speaks to herself,
But within the very muscles of the hand,
The first time you called me beautiful;
It was as if that word spilled from your lips and danced around my head like Native Americans danced for rain.
Your voice: was an orchestrated symphony of violins and cellos,
I spoted a New York liscense plate hanging from your chest
as you parade the streets, from one boro to next.
The best artists around can't wait till' you come to town
If you really knew me
you would know that
I look at people the way you read a book.
If you really knew me
you'd see the way I tense up when
The epitome of what a woman should be.
I struggle to capture perfection in words
You do it ever so effortlessly
If by chance you notice any defection, its absurd
Not timid nor intimidated by possibilities
"I've Learned" by Nicholas Jones.In my 18 years of life,I've yearned for happiness,And I've yearned for strife,I've learned of death,And I've learned of life,
Living since the day I was born,
Dying until the day I'm dead,
And in the interim, it is and has always been, a still-life of what's in my head.
Still thinking the things my lips can't say. You may not be flawless but it seems that way. The little things count the most, and I'll never let go of my hope.
Sometimes life's problems seem to inflame.
This is my cue to draw instead of being in pain.
To jump into the world my mind creates
Paint
my insides
pretty.
My ugly parts
are found objects.
Arrange me
so that I make sense.
I don’t wan to be seen
Artemis unslings her bow,
The huntress selecting an arrow
From her finely wrought quiver
As an artist would select a brush
For his next masterpiece.
Filled with the power of the divine
She cried through the winter,
and so the earth painted itself her favorite shade of green.
She cried for space to chase her dreams,
and so the earth opened into a sky of pale blue.
I screamed. She was never seen. See what she lacked I carried and what I lacked she held onto so dearly.
Off we go, just us two
inside the studio
To free ourselves and simply dance,
to inspire those who desire
to advance
What is Beauty ?
Is beauty something we have on the outside
or something deep within
Is it a woman with curves
Or a model that is stick thin
What is Beauty ?
Is it a woman with the bluest eyes
Today in English class, we learned how one wordcan have many different meaningswhich I guess explains why so many people lieand can deny it.
I write to free my mind
To suprise myself with what I find
It gives me wings
So I may escape and be alone on the sea
I write to free my heart
From those who tore it apart
It gives me shelter
We learn what we are taught. We use crayons to draw up a life that’s already been planned in permanent ink. But we still try.
We are
day-to-day here, surviving off
coffee and energy drinks
and herbal teas passed like drugs
beneath the lunch table.
Like cigarettes
If I Could Fly
If I could fly, I’d fly to you
If I could fly, I’d fly in the blue,
And darkness too
I would travel the globe,
And bring back trinkets and doodads,
With pictures of beyond
I was born without the invitation of saying hello,
yet you might say I was blind from rejection.
I guess it was too hard to live a life of deception.
What is art to me?
Maybe it's Common and his metaphorical love affair with Hip-Hop
Maybe it's Ntozake Shange and her play that is composed of beautiful poems where inspiration could only come from God
What would you do,
What would you say,
If someone said to draw your troubles away?
Would you paint landscapes of fire,
I pushed my hand against my chest in search of a soundbut my heart beat was no where to be found.what a tragedy I must be for my heart to have abandoned meI pressed a little harder but still couldn't feel a thing
The feeling of freedom.
All of your strengths and weaknesses.
All of your fears and dissapointments
They say home is where the heart is
My heart has always been with me
Until that day
Until that moment
Dear, (Fill In the Blank),
I decided the “check the box that applies to you” on the form, was not for me.
So I’m writing over the boxes.
I filled out my address,
my name,
typed in the codes,
Words long lay dormant
And out of reach,
Like shells washed up
On a barren shore
They gave the turbulen expanse
A settled beauty,
But the waves left
Nothing free.
What is the meaning of art?
What draws it from the rest?
What brings it into one's heart,
What makes it pass the test?
Our curiosity strives for the answer,
To this meaning we hope to find.
What is the meaning of art?
What draws it from the rest?
What brings it into one's heart,
What makes it pass the test?
Our curiosity strives for the answer,
To this meaning we hope to find.
I want to be an artist,
but that means I won't earn money.
I want to be an animator,
Products upon products
Days lost to adulation
Looking for beauty under rocks, in-between articles.
The funny thing is,
I buy all this crap, but never wear it.
Hundreds of dollars spent on makeup
My mind—
Which usually perplexes me—
Gets excited by art.
Likes to dunk the world
Into color, and tack
On words
My mind is Narcissus who—
Under the beguiling face
The buildings crumble slowly
Cement walls expose once hidden dark red bricks
Those who slowly crawl past the scene see the structure’s open wounds
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
Animation has been such a beautiful concept for many years.
From 2D, to 3D, it has always brought joy and tears.
So if you ask me, I must say,
That animation for me has always been the way.
Singers, celebrities, artists,
Concerts, shows, events…
Famous or unknown,
Advocates or critics,
Succeeds or failures.
The importance of promotion,
Right management and development.
Connect the streams of dreams of the lost man
Where an ocean of passion for art lies
In the brain of his youth, while gaming.
Feel the crushing waves of the obstacles
Southern mobiles bear a strange sound,
Hmm so I ponder and wander and wonder
What will I grow up to be in is life of mine?
Pounding heart, beads of sweat. Obscene memories one can't forget. Uncontrollable fears, a constructed dam to hold back tears.
"All the World's a Stage,"
And we're just actors, right?
But it takes more than actors
To bring a show to life.
I was a little starlet
Born to sing and dance;
Born to thrill the audience
capturing moments within my dream world
as they strut down the catwalk
like ferocious felines
willing to share my vision
on magazine spreads
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
I look at him through a dark tunnel,
The only light comes from the exits made of glass.
Watch as he starts to stumble
I'm hidden in the tall grass
Through that dark tunnel,
Ghost machineChemical combinesEssential electronsFlame combustionRed-wired boiling water.
Drag an eraser through your tears until the wet trails have all but disappeared A wooden pencil shall draw your lips up into a smile And paints may drop all sorts of bright colors of all shades and tints But not even a million Could blot out the
There are seven billion people on this planet that I have yet to meet,
and one hundred ninety-five countries I have not visited.
Yet I am stuck in this insignificant town,
What makes me tick?
Well, take your pick:
I don't like to exercise
But I like to supervise.
I pour out my heart
In the name of art.
My dark corners revealed
There is no shield.
I'd change your tolerance and guidance toward art.
It's socially acceptable now but we all have our opinions.
Some call it art and some call it trash.
We all have our opinions,
I think sometimes the sky should be a chalkboard that I can scribble on
That way everyone can see my thoughts
And maybe be entertained
They would see ornate designs and oriental shades
Sitting on the bus with my ears plugged
My sinuses throbbing like wrestling giants
Inside my cotton-filled head, I learned
Of a place more beautiful and sad
Than any I had ever seen.
life is like a canvas
u add paint
chage the color
make the design
but with this canvass you are never sure
on how the canvas would look
or how people will percieve it
Scholarship Rejection
Play this game
Write these words
Jump through this hoop
Now do five push-ups
Say the alphabet backwards
Lick the dew off a flower pedal
When life gets difficult,
And your cup over flows,
Things go haywire,
Objects explode,
Theres no air,
No air,
No air you cant breathe,
Your brain cant conceive,
Wrong,
Wrong,
Id like to create a world with my vision,
Soaring through skies and being able to see the sun shine.
The waves crashing creating a collision,
All atainable with my dream of being in Game Design.
The lights go up, the mics are readySet up the camera, nice and steady“Quiet on set!” Ready for the showAll prepared, waiting for my go.
Art relates to me.
Art is the creative skill and imagination presented to the world.
Every stroke of paint an artist adds on a canvas,
every stitch a designer puts in a piece of clothing
Timeless Stone
An ageless face
Carved under sunlight,
Ripened by moonlight.
A tasteless taste
Art is my occupation
By Kyle Solverson
Art is around us and within us
It is the fabric of our being,
For we were molded into an artistic creation
And that art was given to us
I live in a land where the flag speaks red
A red that gives pride and shelter until my end
Yet to my Friends red Bends to displaying the Bloodshed
Of their countries
Living through the darkness of the dead
Starving
Desperate, Hopeless
Wishing, Wanting, Begging
College, Debt, Wealthy, Employed
Striving, Achieving, Believing
Marked by shades
Chained by judgment
Being blinded by false imagery
Colors of white to dark
Long plagued our kind
My mother of Resolution
A mother of hope
A listener of wisdom
My detective of crime
Understanding of all imperfections
Loving, caring, compassionate
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
Therapy pushes the mind,
the mind pushes imagination,
imagination pushes art,
art pushes the mind to be free,
How does one start on a canvas?
What makes a stroke of the brush?
We all have it in us
It’s only a matter of trust
Trust the colors you mix together
Mix well your yellows, purples, and whites
I was a child (more than I am now) when my grandmother shared with me the world.
She’d get mail, like all adults tend to, and leave the blank envelopes for weekends.
" You have sad eyes. Beautiful, but sad. Like you've seen too much."
"They are the only windows, no?"
Neji Freed
Television raised me
Lifted me high enough to see
Having a heart of stone is considered an insult,
But what about having a heart of concrete?
Cold, gray, hard, rough concrete.
But what is that concrete were covered in art?
The tears burn my face because of pain I can’t erase
I dream of an escape these four walls are gonna take me
burry me alive without memories to tell I wonder when I die will I be accepted into hell?
The blood of what fills "Art"
Sustains me,
Controls me,
And tames me for another day in this world
Another day to survive the lies, the heartache, the pain
The blood filled with the history of a world
I wasn't okay.
Everything
Was sinking.
I would stop in the mirror,
An outline of faded empty holes waiting for me.
Hidden in the dark
Alone and trapped,
Art opened the door;
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.
As I look back on those days when I was young
When the sky was blue and the grass was green
I remember playing with boys and girls my age
And cutting out things from construction paper.
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.
Can art make a difference?
No, the question is, can art be a difference?
Can art settle, unravel, disclose, and ultimately end the differences of today's wretched world?
An empty casket appears before me
I cast my eyes upon the hapless victim
This man is my own self
There are no mourners attending this funeraul
Because the man is technically not even dead
man, who are you?
beast, what are you?
woman, why are you?
peace, WHERE are you?
I wonder if anything in life goes according to plan
Or if there will always be these little bumps
The kinks in the hose that won’t come undone
a stage, one lovely place,
act to your heart's content and there below crowds of people
all await your very act.in life the truth scares me but
I see dead people
Every moment of every day.
They think they are living, but they are not.
I see them wearing suits
Their hair combed nice and neat,
Their suits freshly ironed
On the balcony everything seems high and distance
But when its really suppose to be close
But closer you look the less you'll see
Everything to the artist is empty
And the view is a sight not worth to see
I measure every Canvas -with introspected eyes-
I wonder if it will fit- my beautiful Disguise.
I wonder if Some see the beauty-or just what it’s worth-
That one day, two days, three.
Each of these days was filled with suppressed anger within me.
Spread throughout the year, the source of negativity resided in Physics class.
It hurts to see the table empty with no foodAnd my little brother walking around with some fucked up shoes
Its marks are left
As the future turns into past
And the past becomes all but memory.
It can be found wearing
The gold paint of its author.
To every page turned
Its sweet, silent voice
What is it like to be her?
Never sure of what to do; Unsure of every decision
How to describe her?
Fickle, Fickle, Fickle
She can never seem to stick to one path
She compliments me
She says she admires my work
I laugh on the inside
but outwardly am pleasant
She does not realize
that I am a mere dilettante
of the weakest kind
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,"
Measure the lines tangent to the bags under my eyes;There you will find the accurate slopeOf how quickly or slowly depending on how you look at itMy energy is decreasing.
Most people wonder why I spend time alone
Why I prefer being stuck at home
Than at that party with people I don't know
Throwing compliments and smiles just for show
No more music, we ain't got the funds,
No more drama, we ain't got the ones,
woodshop is cancelled, all the tools are broke,
art will have to wait another year, the Super he has spoke,
I wrote this for the purpose of an inspirational video.The impact of the piece isn't as great unless you SEE it. Please check it out as you listen and read along. Copy this link into your browser,
When I was seventeen in early January of my junior year in high school
I picked up a pencil and drew something out of boredom
a doodle of a girl with a bandana in her hair smiling at the sky
Consecutive steps toward the threshold
Yet 10 miles from the desired goal.
Am I too fast or
Is life too slow?
Reaching pinnacles ironically by hillsides
Rather than conquering skyscrapers
I make something I can't describe, my mind doesn't allow me to.
Dark yet bold and bright.
It doesn't take long to look at it.
I don't care if anyone understands it.
It's mine!
My color and shapes,
I am the one who everyone calls short
I am the one who often needs support
I am the black ballet who dreams
My dreams are real
My hopes are precious
My hard work is golden
In this world, there is much hate.
Is it a coincidence? Or is it fate?
Years of bullying, discrimination, war, and rape
How much more can we take?
Peace is there, I just know it.
Her eyes see better than my own. She is admired by all. She has clarity, vision, and artistry. She produces works of art so clear, viewers are transported to a land of freedom and possibility.
Spotlight warms my skin,
I have a rising feeling,
All I have worked for,
One shot for the role,
And I know the lines,
The audition piece is engraved in my mind.
My life is better on stage,
i'm a leaf being blown across the highway.
A rag doll being thrown to the side.
i'm controlled by my surroundings.
i',m dependent of what others have in mind,
Am I here?
Is this real?
Please teach me gently
How to feel
………………………………….
Ive lost my luck
The history of our ancestors have been painted on the walls of the earth/
Painted by war, painted by death, but hopefully these paintbrush strokes by God’s right hand may color life onto our canvass/
grey hallways,
close us in,
trapping our imagination ,
trained to fight, trained to win,
similar to prison,
I wish it weren't true,
wondering about what awaits for me in the big wide blue,
I think I’m crazy. You see…
Artist drawalmost anything conceivableDancers dancealmost anything achievablewriters write
Almost everything believable
And I want to do all three
You stand up there, teaching us this crap
How will it apply and when will I use that
can’t I pick my own classes? Go to class when I want
Whys the government control us, I wish I could change that
Perhaps art class shouldn't have rules.
Art is not rules.
Art is free.
Art is wild.
Art is a pure expression of how we feel,
what we see,
what we are,
so maybe my painting
should we love like science
with solving for X
balancing the equation
knowing the complexity of our bodies?
or rather like the arts
flowing like paint
passione dlike a pencil on paper
I am from houses,
From old neighborhoods and drenched cities
I am from tablets used for drawings
Colorful, amusing
Clean stroked lines
I am from movies nights and eating out
It's an insatiable need.
Hoplessly inescapable and all consuming,
with a pressure that builds until you take heed.
A final release of emotion,
expression,
a work of love and complete devotion,
Voice…what is it?
Why is it that there are so many types?Some have voices…like the Mona Lisaand others have it as the crushedpaper you find in wastebaskets.
I don’t like poetry.
I know, it sounds like blasphemy to an English teacher’s ears but
I just don’t like it.
I know, I sound like a six year old
You sit behind me in the midnight sun
Urging me forward toward the edge
Always there my dark twin
You are the sin to my light
It takes everthing to fight the pull
Oh how sweet it would be
We paint our hearts across the skies
Pour out our very souls
To the world listening for hope
The messages carry by wind
So, I'm perched atop my study stool,
removed from social interactions.
I've become a slave to post-secondary school.
I derive equations, not satisfactions.
I've been solving for x longer than I can recall,
Beauty is created on its face.
Colors swirling into a symphony,
Creating beauty where there is none found.
All emotions are held beneath the tip,
As it glides across this vast unknown.
Maybe She Would Be Alive Today. If I Spoke Up And Said What I Needed To Say. If I Thought Differently and Choose A Different Path. Crazy Thing Is I Didn’t Think She Would Last.
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
The Gothic beauties that engulf my mind
Create a sensation within my soul--
Such is the feeling of flying far East.
Elongated and sinister is the
Very architecture of His people.
I see only images and movies
I am from lands which weep rain unto us all;From cozy tapestries of cloud and trees like the fingers of God.I am from the sweet, bastard child of Gaia and Hephaestus,Where Nature dances the waltz with Industry
The darkness doesn't always mean evil,
Just like the light does not always mean good.
Thinking for yourself isn't always a bad thing.
Right and wrong is an opinion.
Decisions blind.
Outcome unpredictable.
Knowledge is power
Learned since we were younger for hours
Stupidity is what I devour
Teacher wants an apple better not make it sour
I want to learn about many things
Not just anything
Red and green bows
Puffy, flared skirts
Ballerinas,
An instructor standing in the middle of the hall
All attention focused on him
With his long staff in hand
And then I see them
The girls,
To become famous is a dream of mine, I've told myself that a couple of times.
Being known, Traveling the world, Or to be looked down upon with plenty of stares?
I wait and watch to hear my name,
I wait until to see what tomorrow brings,
I wait and I find myself listening, hoping, and dreaming.
Ohio brings what Arizona cannot,
Humidity, winter, blazing summers
there’s pleasurein being disappointed,there are shortcomingswhen seeking happiness,but there’s never pleasurenor shortcomings of what is said to bebut isn’t there’s typography,
Now I know that in and throughout this unique nation
Success is based mainly on education
So I was one of the few who decided, long ago
To be the best student and make some dough
Am I the only one to look up at the sky and wonder
What is beyond the stars yonder
Like a sponge I soak up information
About anything that I can find
The Earth is made of art. The richness that comes from the Earth is my inspiration. I am an artist and life is a dream and I dream with my eyes open. I am a poet in hiding. Revealing myself throught art onto my canvas.
I stand frozen among the trees.<br/>Who I am isn't who I will be,<br/>I'm clueless,hunted by the gun of what is normal,<br/>until a deer bounds away on a new route, eyes wide, nostrils flaring.<br/>But I follow this rat rac
Men or Women
Have the power to kill.
Though we blame objects
Like guns, knifes, swords, etc.
Why are we blaming these objects
When we should be the one to blame
The people that hold the gun,
I wish I had the metaphors tolend description to the love of God.“A father throws his own son in front of a train…”What an inadequate thought. You threwhim from heaven to earth – no.More, he jumped.
People are unpredictable.
If you think they are who they say they are, then you're wrong from the start.
You can only know somebody, if you truly know their heart.
But how will you know that if they cover up their scars,
Sleeping within waves
Her thoughts drift by-
The sea encompasses her
A soothing blue blanket
Calm, content, secure.
With each ebb and flow she sways
So many think that war is the answer,
Yet is a cancer
Spell it backwards its raw
what is the cause of this nature
resources are depleting what are we meeting?
I could be a writer.
But I much prefer photography.
Yet don’t they say that photos are worth a thousand words?
All I have to do is put those words onto non-light sensitive paper.
But I don’t because
droplets
dripp
ing
periwinkle
r u n n i n g
red beads cir – cu – lat – ing
echoing the crown of quintessential sparrows.
From as far
well as far as I can remember
From the cold fronts of December
to the hot summers of July in everything
I've done it was to prove that I could do
anything as long as try,
The world has loads of unwanted things
Things that we think make us happy
Our trust has been broken
Broken like broken records our beloved Michael had done time &time again
Our lives have seen enough
A heart frozen from pain and hurt can have it all melt away from the touch of love and passion, the shadow of depression can be swallowed by the light of serenity, in a dream the heart follows the path it chooses in life the mind constricts and di
Vibrant or dull
Oil, acrylic, watercolor
Charcoal or pastel
Marker, pen, colored pencil
Multimedia collage
Color, shape, line, form, texture, value, space
I loved you so much,Your feel.Your touch.The way you walked.The way you talked.I loved it all, so much.
Most people call it busy,
A constant movement,
A flutter in one direction
Get this:
You have no clue you're movin'
Caught in the crossroads
Two paths to choose
But some can't afford
Courage, the pride of a lion. The heart of a marine. Something everyone strives to acheive, but many fail. Is courage best earned when it is ignited from love, anger, or fear. The costs can be high but the reward is sweet.
I put my pencil to the paper to drain my mind of flooded thoughts
No need to look at the page my hand knows my brain's soughts
From my emotions to conscious subjects I write it out in a cursive vent
Today
We Fly.
Today
We Cry.
Today
We Sigh.
Today
We Lie.
Today
We Deny.
Today...
We Die.
(Written in Trochaic Monometer)
Before I step on the spotlight, I dip my pointe shoes on Rossin.
Adrenaline pumps my blood and my senses change; I am not myself anymore.
Once the melody strikes, the brain doesn't think, it feels and creates something beautiful.
The flowing dancer
spinning with the tongue
the pen
the pencil
sentences tumbling at times
only to stand once more
graceful as ever
Moving quickly
then slowly
She steps inside
a world unkown.
The place is dark
and stars don't glow.
She starts to cry--
she wonders why--
she thinks she cannot
be fulfilled
with just her dreams.
Art is art to whom it is shown it does not need wit or pride but love and reality.
As the hands of the creator, creates the soul of the artist is put in to his art work.
Revel in many, first the art of fear.
To paint fond pictures of the coming day,
To abscond the life I hold closely dear,
When butterflies can soon fly astray,
The skin
that I am in
is my own
For it is something that
I could never loan
It is the bark on my bones
the shell on my back
It is the canvas of life
for the voice that I lack
Why don't I be
someone who can achieve
greatness in wealth,
in propserity, and health?
Why don't I be
something that guarantees
a home and a life
without struggles and strife?
The word must get out
Without a sound,
It must be louder than a shout!
The word is not heard
Nor is it seen,
It must be felt within the heart!
I'm writing because I'm angry.
I'm writing because I'm sad.
I'm writing because I'm lost.
I'm writing because I'm mad.
Words are my escape.
It is like they understand.
I can express my true feelings,
With you? The monsters don't seem so scary.
And life? Not so tough.
You are the sunshine to my darkness.
You keep me safe beside you.
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 this paper and pen
I turn my pain into an artistic expressive manifestation
Thoughts strewn across the membrane of each cell
That identify as my being
When I close my eyes all I can see is your face wanting to get me.
That's why I write
When I go to lay in bed at night all I can feel is your hands on me.
That's why I write
As children we scribbled on paper so white,
Counting the colors,
Enjoying the sight,
Of the marvelous splendor,
Of something we made,
Showed it to mom,
Then went out and played.
a cluttered studio
full of only art
how does so many ideas exist?
we sit down at a worn wooden table
pulling out some moist red clay
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
Being rewarded:
to receive something for doing something.
It's a great feeling
whether it be cash or whatever with we're dealing.
It sort of a mental healing.
To feel accepted and recognized,
The familiar thwack of shoulder pads colliding
filled the air. My heart pounded from the
run over. My eyes searched for him on the field.
Then I saw the familiar skinny,
much too pale limbs,
Ideas,
Jumbled in my head, pulsating, spinning, swirling
I look at the blank document, white space
Music lightly decorating the room
Fingertips tingling, a quick impulsive burst of energy thrust onto the screen
-You lie through your teeth
When it comes to how-are-you’s
“I’m good” or “I’m okay,”
Is what you’d instead say
-Feeling lonely day by day
Not that you weren’t alone in the first place
There are days that I findI do not identify with the me thatreflects in the sight of others.Lost in my subliminal mind,when ink spills and pen is broken,my quiet tongue is the ripple
As the sunlight slips between my fingertipsI watch the shadows fallThey fall in lacy breaths over my skin,Making darkness and light seem so intricate
I write this poem is for you,Because you have an honest soul,Because you've cried yourself to sleep at night at least once before.
Objectives thru journeys Which within them we, As culprits of our deeds, Die consecutively... Loops swaying around... Of life's need to fond... Caress scars and wounds... With which i so bound... Strides of loud strobes... Sights of glowing vibrat
I watch my art producing, the many thoughts that come alive
Each piece producing, as the pages turn one by one and the many works begin
Smooth, wood shelf, open and close
Silver, shiny curves, empty dome
White powder, packs and flies
Pure crystals, numerous and fine
Pale yellow, takes a new form
Flowing liquid, slowly pour
Cuando plasmo en papel dejo huella de mi alma, la poesía libera mis más profundos pensamientos me alivia como el aire del viento.
Expression is my life.
Poetry allows me to be me,
it allows me to be free.
Drawing, painting, writing
All forms of art, are dear to my heart.
Expression is my life.
Uneventfully I awoke.
Unsurprisingly the sun beating hot on the single paned windows –
Caused dew drops of moisture to form
Dragging myself out of bed,
Discarding one used shirt for another,
He had the hands of a construction worker
Slit and scarred by boxcutters
grinded and calloused by stretching canvas
punched with holes from missed stapling
Do we let ourselves get consumed within our personal nations;
A victim of our differences by nationality?
What about the genetic equations of our emotions,
And the resulting masterpiece of our emotionality?
As the ocean conforts me.
The only thing between,
Me and the sea,
Is the air I breath.
As the tide comes in,
I feel safe within.
As the tide goes out,
It takes my doubts.
I can never speak, the words come out
twisted and jumbled and ran together
as if the sentences I form were hit by
a train on its track
When I write everything comes
out clearly I can write on for
It is elegant as a mute swan,
As rhythmic as the beating of a drum,
That is poetry.
It portrays detailed visions,
The world as seen through the writers eyes,
That is poetry.
It is as long as life,
To me, art is the ninth wonder of the world,
The yin-yang, the peace, and the harmony of life,
A mystery yet to be unraveled,
To me, ART has boundaries. It must
Be more than expressive ugliness or even sheer beauty. The purest ART holds
An ability to swiftly, discretely, completely arrest its viewer, transforming his eyes into those of the
I want to be lost in art.
I want to be an artist who doesn't have a care in the world,
No need for looks or fancy clothes.
Content
I want to feel extreme passion about what I make,
I want to be lost in art.
I want to be an artist who doesn't have a care in the world,
No need for looks or fancy clothes.
Content
I want to feel extreme passion about what I make,
A moment of peace when only our thoughts become our speech
Our minds rewind as waves shower back against the sea,
The passage in time with no utter sound or words that feel bleak,
Deep within my soul this story untold
Of love life happiness and dreams deferred
A poet’s passion
Let my pen lead you down, down this road if you dare
To tell a passion of poetry a love so deep none could tear
Hear their sickened words
their twisted lies
taste the poison
on their tongues
Isolated and alone
i hide in the shadows
away from the evil
away from their world
Poetry is an art,
A meduim of words.
It can come from the mind,
Showing passion or pain.
I write to express,
It becomes an outlet for emotions.
Only for my eyes,
There it is: nowhere, the idea has left Like a lightning bolt striking the air, and as deft As a mouse escaping beneath the stair- Where it has gone to I never shall know Nor am I intent on finding out anymore-
I never liked poetry
I never understood what it meant
There was too much metaphor
Without any intent
I never liked poetry
Music was my medium
At least most songs rhymed
Poetry is an art of itself,
No rules, No sentences, poetry has a mind of its own
It may rhyme from time to time,
Or it may Haiku,
A five seven five format
Used inside this poem
My Reason Why?
In life there are struggles
And when the storm hits there is the question, why?
Why did she leave, why are you here,
And why are there so many deaths in the city?
I want to talk about crayons solid, opaque sticks of wax the kind your parents tell you not to use as a snack when you're four, and the colors looks so good you need to try them to be sure and then you spit it out, feel the flecks of color stick t
Art, mind, body, soul. All are connected. Poetry, theatre, dance, sing. All are therapy. With therapy we join. With therapy we live.
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,
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
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 art is never visual to the eye.
It’s not always painted and framed on walls,
Nor has it always consisted of paints.
Poetry is a form of expression.
Creativity using only words.
Poetry is the way words are arranged,
And the passion behind those words.
Poetry is art.
Scared.
Have you ever been
so scared of losing it
(your Gift from God)
that you'd never get
that lucky break,
the prize you'd win
if only you could change the stakes
erase the fate
When I was nine,
I thought that every time my mom received a new name
That I received it too.
I thought that names were like purple
You can’t forget the red and the blue.
You are a centerpiece,
You are every art gallery.
You are Lisa's Moan
Panting under Leonardo's
Brush, echoing through
The marble halls of the
Louvre. Your skin is felspar
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,
I am a writer
A musical writer
I write in song
in rythmic song
my writing has notes
my writing may be notes
It may be whacked
Or out of order
but this is my writing
Stop
Listen
The thrumming of the music
Vibrating through your mind
Painting a picture no other can see
Stroke
Erase
Your hand moves on its own
Making the mind real
The creations from within, are inner expressions of my core self, spilled onto the canvas & Paper.
The creations from within, is a tool I use to connect with my higher guidance to guide me through new creative pathways.
Ink, thick in the air
wafts a seductive tale
of permanence.
The room is abuzz
with anticipation
and cat-scratch pain.
The prick, the squeal
of newly minted adults
In the dead of night, crickets play their song.
I lay on the cold dirt ground, while in your arms.
Look up, you say.
A diamond filled like sky.
I see a smile.
Words swirl inside my head like pillars of light,
I grasp onto the strands and wait:
I wait for them to makes sense,
Incoherent buzzes of truth are all I have.
My mind is spontaneous; at times I want to scream.
But that is too extreme.
Sometimes, I can't say what I mean to say.
Oral words are sculpted for the outside's way.
When I was young words would jump at me, and land on the pages I turned.
With each "swish" of the page new words gave birth on the thin white sheets.
Spectators marveled at my unraveled gift.
I envy those who can create fine art.
With brilliant strokes the make masterpieces.
Colors flow and blend for a grand effect.
They do not realize how lucky they are
To have the skill to bring forth such beauty.
I was always fascinated by the universe of New York and all the stars that hailed from its solar system but Brooklyn was a bitter taste that was hard to swallow.
For the "I Am... Scholarship Slam."
We write, we hide,
we live our lives in coffee shops,
sippin' tea from little mugs,
stains on our teeth,
contemplating the meaning of life.
I wrote a letter of uncertainty
I scribed in sweet remembrance
I scripted dialogue to make me laugh, when I hurt myself
My words are drenched, in sorrows that I wrote about
“It is said that Prometheus
ascended into heaven
and secretly lit his torch
at the chariot of Helios,
in order
to bring down fire to man”
Anger.
Love.
Strength.
Weakness.
Hate.
Fear.
I write for them.
They take over.
They use my pen to escape.
Word
By
Word.
Once they start, they do not stop.
Seamus Heaney wrote of his admiration for his family,
they are determined people- something Seamus wants to be.
He knew he couldn't compete with them in their talent,
these hands, subjacent to my heart,
brush tears from eyes,
push water through space,
teach children to swim,
feed hungry lost souls, faith,
make art, heal wounds,
and open doors... for you.
"I could never make art."
They all say something different, but that's how it starts.
I'm not good enough, it don't look right,
I know this 'cause I've been there.
We all have - been there. You just don't know.
Anxiousness bubbles in me,
boils in my veins,
as paint falls before me.
Color swirls,
twirls at my fingertips,
all my doing.
I twist,
curl,
twirl the paint brush,
stroking freely,
The beast in me has woken up. The howling of the light that shone through my soul untied the knot of frenetic encapsulation.
Yellows, oranges, whites, and greys.
He thinks his “masterpiece” deserves so much praise.
An egg-shaped eye with a rectangle pupil,
And tentacles in two sets of duple.
She has magic in her hands
The wand is her pen
She delicately draws the lines
Then she eloquently makes them refined
She doesn’t do it to waste time
She does it to clear her mind
I cannot draw to save my life,Nor paint nor sculpt nor color;I cannot build inspired domes,Nor compose a simple measure.
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.
Blank and barren pages have been my eternal enemy
Hours tick by
The start of a new battle
Pencil and ink strike first
Blood flowing
Making me whole for just another moment
“You are no one!”
Creation
Of everything,
of nothing
Birth of lives,
Called upon by lightning;
A connection unbroken
Unexplained,
undefined,
unmatched.
One touch
Creates one world
Staring at a wall is like a painter with a blank canvas
You don't know what to make
To create
What is your inspiration?
Grab that bottle of red paint and throw away your paintbrush
Imma call u picasso let my heart be your canvas..
get creative but gentle cuz my heart can b easily damaged,
sometimes hard to manage,
but well worth the investment..
my loves like a disease
dont test it
If I were an artist
I’d bathe myself in color
And allow my art to consume me
I’d wash myself with charcoal
And paint my features with pastel
I would wake in the midst of night
The rising of the crescent moon begins the wishing hour,
The stars erupt, align, & appear with enchanting power,
For lovers & dreamers, those lost & those found,
The clouds will dissipate,
Filling the mold, being the faithful daughter,
Doing as I am told, it is not a bother.
Always honest when inquired, presentation is the key,
Ask, and you will know, just who I am to be.
So, tell me, now who made this mouth of clay?
What mighty being formed you from the dust?
The One who watches you by night and day,
And hears you every thought in open trust;
The Man who takes upon your heavy load,
It's simply done. This movement through the dos and do nots have restrained an otherwise free spirit. I breathe through this pencil. I'm nourished through the words I read.
Choosing misperceptions,
Misconstruing and impeding my attempts
At intellectual self-betterment.
Creating notions for myself, falsely,
Of the worlds fabricated and lives changed
By my brush.
Twenty six letters composing a phrase,
Letters that have the power to break chains,
Whether they exist in books or essays,
Penetrate my heart, running through my veins.
God with us
God with us, I’ve heard it said before
But what does it really mean
to be with the Lord?
You don't poison me with lies;
You intoxicate me with truth.
There's beauty in your mind
That captivates me like a piece of art.
Your words are a masterpiece,
An orchestrated symphony
Keep the beats going through these halls.
Or watch the silence take the last bit of thrill.
An art form no less than the pictures on these walls.
So it’s the dreams of artists you want to kill?
A woman's bare white legs,
Cut off just above the knee,
The shine of her patent heels, the allure
Of the unseen. A telephone--
The old-fashioned kind--
Dropped in from the top edge of the frame.
(poems go here)
Let me ask you a question
When you look at your life what do you see?
Is it a story, is it a song?
Filled with the music of your dreams?
(poems go here)
This is a song of my heart, a letter of my soul
To Hold.
To Feel.
To Write.
To Draw.
To Move.
To Clench.
Mine to Own,
Yours to Hold.
God’s best tool He’s given me.
Hands.
I see something different.
Instead of filthy streets and broken down cities,
I see art.
The world is a sculpture.
Every single piece carefully, and articulately placed.
Every piece of trash
I read about these people
These wonderful, beautiful souls
I wonder how I'm supposed to muster
Up the courage to make my own.
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.
Coping mechanisms have increased
Until loads of weight are placed onto my shoulder
Relapses from what I once was
From what I once did
I sing my pages to sleep
ruffle their hair with my breath
Shh
I will never wash their blood clean
They bruise into my veins
I will water them down and leave them on my skin
oh, the joy
Pick a color of string
Sure, violet works
Now another
Green sounds nice
And another
Pink
Measure the string by using your arm span
Why?
It works every time
Now fold the stings in half
paint’s not like pencil
though they both start with ‘P’
paint’s not like pencil
though they both set me free
paint’s not like pencil
paint will not leave like the rest
paint’s not like pencil
The brush of life paints a beautiful peice of work depending on how the artist reacts to the changes of the canvis.Using paints better known as emotions the stroke of hands that have seen both death and life within the same year glide with grace.
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.
It's bursting out!
This little beast
Of joy and pain -
My fingers crave
To only carve
And carve away,
At the chips of reality
Before my gazing eye.
True are the winds that speak through the pine,
But humble is honesty too.
Brave are the waves that crash to the bluff,
But peaks are forever unmoved.
What is sensation if only my sail?
Forever.
Among the others . . .
Crawling up my leg.
A shark-bite?
No.
A deep slice
Into the juicy insides
Of a pale, goose-bump-covered watermelon.
Sticky juices once oozing from its edges.
He looked at Me today.. He didn't speak but He peeped at Me today.. I caught that little smirk, I still consider him a jerk for the way he portrays himself around school, but its all cool.
There is something absolutely wonderful about a blank piece of paper
Simple at the very least, it sits expectantly for touch
Its every clean inch is a possibility for perfection
I have become new
As the days burn out
Cold comes out
My eyes become new
Along to the years ahead
My breaths wait inside
You'll come along in time
Winter holds the stories I've said
Amazingly, pretentious artists actually exist
Blissfully ignorant of the fact that
Consciously barring any form of creativity
Defies the very essence of art.
Oh when the base drops.
Beads of sweat flying off of warm skin.
Lights a flashing in
synchronized motions.
Teens giving off imperial notions.
Art is a dream that I cannot escape,
It’s more than just colors and paper and shapes,
Appearing in sights I see every day,
I get lost in the beauty that’s on display,
The gears in my mind spin with furious haste,
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
The art inside of me
Pushes me,
Hungry for creativity.
It is me.
It is who I will be and
Who I have been.
Let me express my
Desires and dreams.
We already have a bad rep
It's been going on since the beginning of time
But I will not take this no longer
Because now it's time to stop
The south wind blows and I will miss you
Who will you miss, though?
Have you anybody to know, grow, set seeds and sow?
We fall, fall, fall to the blue, into the blue
And then...
