paint
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If I could,I would paint a picture of you across the sky—A canvas of clouds for the world to see.The rainbow, my palette, dipped in hues of my heart,To illustrate the boundless depthsOf how much I love you.
Narrow hallways in morning
Where the sun wont come through
I laid cramped on the floor through the night, painted blue
Early sky with no warmth
Like a push, but not forth
Dragged behind my shortcomings
Well a lifetime slipped right on by
Underneath my wing
In the space between youth and it's timeless lies
A lifetime found its way ahead of me
One more time
I thought i'd outrun it
I would have happily stayed theresleeping in my airless candreaming in the silent darknesswith not a concern in the world
When I see the color
Swirl onto the white canvas
My walls crumble before me
My world grows bigger
The wild prairies of Kansas
Sleep under the night sea
That which held countless stars that hover
My canvas is stained with memories
Ink seeping from its white sheets like blood
Pooling into puddles of thoughts, feelings, expressions
The red rage that builds up inside me
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
You were perfect...too perfect,
Your warm smile sheltered your bitter words
Those deep blue eyes focused far beyond me
You only confirmed my greatest fear:
She painted her face the way she painted her body,
To cover the pain and tears he left behind.
~awatr
To the Artist Who Painted the Portrait of a Heavy Heart,
Your frayed brushes with shattered, splintered handles devoid of paint
Daggers of sound
Stab the night
Like lovers found
Cheating.
But tonight we live
For it.
Live like living will
Fix the problems,
Even tho it won't.
We dance with the strobes
Join and fight, join to die.
Join to paint, a blood-red sky.
The artists are the infantry,
The archers black a sky to see,
The flames, the art, Troy to dust
While Hektors sword gives way to lust,
As I sit, soaked in paint
dripping on the office chairs
I think about how I got here
If it hadn’t been for that math problem
As ink ridden eyes
Gaze into white skies
The world, a canvas
The painter, relentless
The brush he holds
A stroke of gold
If I could paint a picture of you
I would need a large canvas.
One that could actually hold my vision of you.
I am the illustrator
The masterpiece creator
The doodler
Subjective art form translator
Visionary artist
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
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
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 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
Painted Upon a Page my unspoken words sit.
Sour and horrid are their meanings... deeper than I would like to admit.
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
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
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.
Sleep controls our minds, it wraps itself around our though process until it seeps into our neurons by the power of suggestion
I am slowly changing like a painting manipulated and altered by multiple artists. The artists and I grow old together. My tattered corners must add some character to me, right?
girl in the bathroom paints on her facecovering the spots on her skin hoping to be like the otherscover it for the mornings but reminded by the night timeknowingly she changes her looks
When the song plays I see my treasure, the person who I care about.
A bitter sweet song that gives me a sign that you are still waiting for me.
Crayola, crayon, color. It’s nice, pretty, and one of its own nothing will be like it.
It starts in 1999, when at five years
old, still chubby-cheeked and new,
I learned that make-up was for girls
as night over night I watched my mother paint
Bleeding because it paints the pictures
so heavily spilled
in my mind.
And seeing the crimson upon my skin
Gives me pain that makes me real.
Crying because
It makes me view
My face is not my canvas
I can contour
I can paint
I can outline
I can manipulate
I Cannot tell a story
I Cannot move others emotionally
I Cannot be studied
My real canvas
Sometimes I care so much it hurts
So I hide behind indifference for anesthesia
I'm running from my inner demons
It’s easier to use my sins as temporary amnesia
I wear my Scarlett letter like a mask
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.
Seeing a painting
That most people think has no meaning
I see something else
In the jumble of stuff
Not just splatters of paint
But pictures in unlikely places
Maybe a lady on a swing
I met a girl
once
twice
many times.
Sitting, she swung on a swing
And smiled at the clouds
she sang a song, the chorus
once
twice
many times
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
Imagine a world with no color
How dull our lives will be
Every moment the sky gray
That’s not the way
Our dreams won’t be dreams
We will wake up with screams
Because a world with no color
My dear,
My friend,
My confidante,
you are drowning in suicidal greyscale.
The world, so vibrant, paints our lives with emotional colors-
our thoughts, feelings, actions-
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,
I like to let my imagination
run wilder with every
darker shade of the night sky,
as the sunset melts away
onto the other side of the world,
like sherbet ice-cream
left on the counter for too long.
The wrinkles under his eyes
spell experience and trust
as his overworked lips form the words
let yourself be raw
but even then i paint.
I paint over the bruise on my cheek
Sketching the world in a little black notebook;
preferably the kind that highlights the light.
Walk by and find that your figure has danced on my paper.
I fail to see the reflecting light subside.
My canvas needs paint
My prison needs bars
The light sheds through the darkness
The darkness that has kept me in the shadows for 9 withering months
Paint the colors of the rainbow on her canvas
Every morning she paints on her face.
She removes the bags from under her eyes, and hides the ones lying inside.
She tries her best to cover the stains, tries her best with the ones in her brain.
A brush of color through silvered night air,
Paints a dragon’s false shape, starlit shining
Majesty with which no one can compare.
Aurous beast, streak through the wind like lightning
Color me anything
Anything at all
A vibrant gold wave
Or a tinselly silver
Christmas red and green
Or daffodil yellow
It doesn’t matter what
As long as you can see it
Back and forth,
back and forth,
runnin down the court
Can't imagine anything.
Nothing stronger,
im the king of this court,
come at me brother.
