art

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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
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!
Art
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
ART
Alluring Rare Talented
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
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,
All you've ever seen Is black and white. But maybe I can be the one To paint you a blue sky.
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    
but if you could see inside my mind oh, maybe then you'd find   a world that i don't know how to create pictures that i don't know how to paint ideas forgotten - then it's too late  
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, 
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 ,
Do you know what it's like to open yourself up to the world....
Painting Greys
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 High School… Dear Institutionalized Hell Hole… Dear Teenage Years…  
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…  
You
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
Fly
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,
Once upon a time -no,
she was looking at us with her eyes closed
'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.
I've recently discovered That I have uncovered A secret longing I've had inside Hidden within my mind. Why is it now only surfacing And why are my thoughts discouraging Something that I truly desire?
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
Music, words spoken  Fashion design, theatre  Drawings and paintings  
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  
Heavy dejection Desperate resurrection Abstract creation
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 
When you speak to me, breathe sweet words into my ear drums through
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,
art
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
She screams out loud But no one hears her.
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
                          Its funny to think with you I'm more safe                cause you have the lock and key.
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
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
Her smile in these photos entice me to look deeper and beyond my interpretation.
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
Words are an art concealed by sound and expression.  
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
Zen
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
Him
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.
The Ocean                            I sit on a patch over looking the ocean                                    my body quivers like it full of emotion
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
Dear lover, ​I write a lot. There are words scribbled on my palms, my arms.
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, 
I fell in love with an artist.
I am cursive.
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
Bloody shoes, scraped feet, tired souls
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.  
If you could paint a picture, what would you draw? A dark night full of mystery?
Art
They are unabashed brazen and bleeding for you do not turn away
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
Fully Alive   It's when a quart mason jar is filled to the brim, with black coffee and
We can find the awe in everything
What a wonderful thing it is to know light from dust. To know plastic from purgatory.
i don't want to be a piece of art 
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
Everything is Awesome! Jordan Bryant
My life has it's ups. And downs. And it's starting to turn around.  
My life has it's ups. And downs. And it's starting to turn around.  
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

  The wind pushes against my window as if it’s aching to get inside 
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  
A fly Circles My bedroom
Sudden 15 minute poem before I sleep because Why not.
Art
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
Take me to art exhibitions Not just the museums of empty 
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,
  Phoenix Rise The stage, the lights, the crowd I transform into a different character
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
They asked her to strip bare, to expose herself to ongoing art connoisseurs,
The painting originated by the painter was not the first element of its nature 
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.
I think in pictures, not words.
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,
Oh, how this place has become
Art
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
They say life is like a book of handwritte
"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
Shouldn’t it be funny
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
There’s something
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.
i.in this 1525 woodcut print by Albrecht Dürer
A round lens glaring onward Flash, Another memory archived
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
Praise be to thee
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,
Long walks on the beach Looking into your eyes 
She is alive
“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
Truth be told Sometimes I have no idea
I'm not a "girl" That's not my label
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 
I have ragged nails  from thoughtful, nibbling teeth calouses from where the pen sits
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 
The world is cruel Everyone always fights I thought we were supposed to be together
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.
It is my happy place, my getaway
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
Onto the South face, my mind is a yearning flake, nude and bare I am.
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.
I say   Knowledge is key  
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; 
Art
  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.
There's an itch that needs a scratchJust like an egg that needs to hatch
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
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.
I sit alone Staring at a blank canvas The power to create anything overwhelms
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.
There's nothing I love to do more than eat Not even playing videogames What I love the most is meat How could I ever be ashamed? What else could bring such joy And help explore another culture
The thrill chases the chill
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 . . .
Listen these days I feel enslaved in my thoughts left to rot in prison.
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. 
It bleeds through me - A whirling current of color, Flowing from my heart
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
Art
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!
Hours, minutes, seconds of my time.   Tic; Mathmatics
Here's what keeps this soul goingHere's what makes
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.
I would rather fall into a pit
I flew upon the fragrant wings
      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,
eg0str0ker-
i'm sitting in econ enjoying the lesson when my mind floats away.
A beat A rhythm A hook A chorus
I remember the shouting. Hearing the screams behind closed doors.
Art
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,
The air is thin   I could suffocate    I am alone    Rushing through the fog   I ascend    A light   
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
I want to scream I want to shout
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
I hate you
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.
Golden are the leaves illuminated by sun.
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
   My eyes are stars
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.
I am better at writingthan making a verbal speechso don't expect me to preach
Art,abstracted aesthiticSketching, painting, sculpting.Let the creativity flowcraftily.
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
Welcome to the realm of creative individuals
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
Art
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  
Just one job may change my life
One Job May Change my life  
  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
One Job Could Change My Life
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.
do you know the unluckiest man in the world ?
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,
Society screams
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.  
  Just picture life without limits.
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
a dream is made a dream when you realise it is almost impossible, it starts to consume you, in and out, day and night, until eventually you realise that that is all it is, a dream;
  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
There I'll be Face to face with the Mona Lisa 
Dust in the airGlaze creating a glare.
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
She connects the lines...
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
  Art  
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
Its flawless face is veiled with tension like a bride on her wedding day,
One, two, and three
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?
A sweep of the armA flick of the wrist,Bold lines thatSpeak life into
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?
Where is the feeling? The absence of loaded words
  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-
Art
A bell goes off in the distance followed by chatter and footsteps I stay still.  
You,  who stand there and look me in the eye.  You dare say I, 
Sometimes I get horrible waves of deep, deep sorrow. They come on soft,
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
The thought of liking someone
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 love good haikus             They are an amazing art         Too bad this ones done                                                                                                                                                                  
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.
  What is color? Is it a mood, A memory, An expression of life? It is the iron To the fortress,
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 a lost canvas Why do I seem invisible?Why am I ignored?

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?
Art
Creation unlike reality, expressing for lunar eyes.
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
War
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.  
I Need To Write  
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
Art
Books would be different, Dr. Seuss would be pointless, Poems are an art.
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- 
Art is the millisecond one awakes from a coma,
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
discover knowledge imagine possible world create future ART
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.
There they were Just flying, just f l o a t i n g
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
They never stop Tears stream down my face I long for them to stop But they never stop
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.
Joke. Jokes are good. Good jokes, dry jokes Like the grass of the boreal Funny jokes Like the kids of the night. Only say good jokes. Only get respect for your jokes
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.
Art
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...
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