PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

There’s serenity to being alone when you write,
Being guided by the inspirational light,
A muse to follow and pursue,
To find the words that describe what alludes.

This paper is my canvas,
These words are my paints,
A hyperbole manifesting,
Always the hardest of times,
Always the greatest of rewards.

What we paint lasts forever,
And for that we assume our words
change those around us,
The same way they change ourselves.

We believe they feel our thoughts,
Understand our message,
See the stroke we intended,
Without making a unique interpretation.

And yet again we find truth
that they see what they need,
Not what we wrote, not what we saw,
They understood what they want,
And there is one less lonely thought.

So, while the serenity comes when you are alone,
Don’t forget that paints can be seen in different tones,
And while a painful memory is your bleeding scar,
The light they use to read is coming from a different heart.

I live only to paint.
I am your faithful and loyal servant
whose dreams wash onto my canvas.        
She wakes me each morning
with colors floating inside my head,
dancing with dreams of texture.
I open myself to her,
never knowing where she is taking me.
She pulls me with her magical wand.
While wanting her nakedness exposed,
she kisses my thoughts with ecstasy.

She plays with my heart,
touching my palette with gold and silver,

gifts for a king.
She is my source of everlasting Light
that showers me with images from above.
I take pictures of her in my head
and develop them using my hands.
I work ferociously

to get what I see onto the canvas,
putting all the colors in their proper place.
The painting comes alive.
As this new creation develops,
a meticulous movement of my mind
marches to a melodic symphony

that touches Spirit,

that touches life,

that touches love.

Picture perfect silhouette, gleeming in my eyes,

Silky smooth suductive lines, flow as taffy candy

Soothing shadow valleys, bending slowly over time

Mounded tuffs of softened rise, crest my darkened Angel

Her streaming hair, blends the air, she lies in filtered haze

Poised in a radiant, blissful glow, she lays still to adorn my canvass.

Could you write "A Painted Pony", could you coin a lucid phrase?

Would your words be true, or misconscrewed, like reading through a maze?

When you enter conversation, does it start with Thee and Thou?

Do you shovel it so deeply, they wear boots and use a plow?

Sometimes it's good to throw in words like,"the" and "that" and "and",

"Easily not, may words come forth" when written in the sand!

Many things were written, "twisted verse" back in the day,

But the way they wrote was understood, cause' they even talked that way.

Now, this isn't the 1500's with a "Brooke or Painter" delight...

(Where Shakesphere "borrowed" most of his words)..To become a famous playwright!

So, choose your words for all to read, let your conscience be your guide...

"May all who attempt your assemblage of text, decipher far and wide!"

Life is a Canvas of time...

Painting out unwanted marks, hiding them in background.      

Building bridges to cross the tide, extending boundaries, 
Shading and  fine lines added, we have new focus ...
  It is brilliant'

Picking a spot on my body

to make my cuts today.

There are so many 

places I can choose from,

so many places that I've already cut on.

Maybe I'll cut on my hand,

maybe on my palm.

Maybe on my wrist,

maybe on my arm.

Maybe on my stomach,

maybe on my waistline.

Maybe on my thigh,

maybe on my legs.

Maybe on my ankle, 

maybe on the insides of my thighs....

Maybe where my underwear can cover,

hell, It's not like I haven't cut there before...

There are so many places

on my body

that I can take a blade to

and draw my art.

One cut here,

another cut there...

maybe a big one here,

and a small one there.

Cut, cut, cut, cut

my head screams to me,

my hands beg of me,

my blade calls to me.

I'm picking a place on 

my body,

a spot to make a new cut,

a new piece of art...

Where will I pick today?

Sit me down,

rocking in the mud, woven disease pasted.

Saliva of cherubs lap my cadaver, antiques in sunlight of lilac water.

And the slime.

A hat, a relic of sick.

5 O’clock shadow.

Pills pouring out a two piece bathing suit, onto gravel, dirty marbles into a mental dimension of Jell-O, late night talk shows.

Rape a baby’s blanket, blue with trim, green with chunks. 

It slathers and strokes.

Sit me down,

Holes rip from pores, goggling eyes peek-a-boo.

 A haze, a punk rock phase, built from dust of cities.

Golden oil poured, a deluge turning to drippings and hairnets and a mole with a hair that stands alone like herself that morning.

Floral wind, calico playhouses for relics of children in honey and mud and I am here.

Sit me down,

on weekends and holidays and open windows in winter time dressed as lawyers with square shoulders with nooses that convulse with each step.

 Limp, limping up wooden stairs.

Sit. Me. Down.

Lay me down.

Bury me deep.

Smells wavering,

 serpentine knives cutting without hands on arms and through the cushions, throbbing.

Hair dye sweat that sucks inside frames exposing pink,

puffy,

wet parts that beat like a heart,

that’s on top;

The Queen of all the swollen mass that you are.