#canvas

1104 posts
  • bclark2681 3d

    Canvas of Dark & Blood

    Painting of words upon my canvas
    Described by my own arthritides hands
    Tainted shades of black and vibrant red
    Depicts my dark struggles and aloned calm
    As well as my bleeding pain and loving lust
    ©bclark2681

  • kalakritigram 3w

    If you are an artist, the problem is to make a picture work whether you are happy or not.

    - Willem de Kooning

  • sidharth_jeevakumar 6w

    The Artwork

    ..
    Canvas, brushes and paints,
    I had it all within my reach.
    Yet the art was in my heart,
    Her pretty face with a smile.

    ©sidharth_jeevakumar

  • wifey_suicide 8w

    Makeup

    Put your makeup on
    Like your marching for war
    Close the door
    Until the painting is done
    Since nobody wants to see the blank canvas
    They want to see the artist side
    The only talent that every human got
    Survival skills
    I’m sure we’ve all forgot
    Just like animals
    Domesticated and nothing but artificial flavors

    While you’re still holding that brush
    Look at the human you just made
    That would become face to face
    To the human race
    Nothing is attractive unless it’s filled with paste
    That was made from nothing but pigs
    Eyeliner
    At least they finally got their wings
    Fly high
    Now it’s time to wash your face

    ©wifey_suicide

  • artenitz 8w

    The canvas

    Knees both gathered up and her head lying amidst,
    Seated below the colossal sycamore gazing at the empty canvas.
    Golden warm rays of the sun glides through the branches,
    Through the leaves, the wild orchids and through all the living;
    Through everything except her numb, lifeless frozen heart.
    When the tip of the brush dipped in azure,
    Touches the dry chiffon canvas;
    The hues rush and blend and embrace at once
    And so does the blood and life in her heart.
    They glide effortlessly through her body reviving her lungs, liver and brain;
    And that’s when a smile engulfs her face and she bursts into gazillion flames.
    ©artenitz

  • squidge422 8w

    Body

    My canvas is my own

    I can paint anything I want on it

    And should someone else wish to paint with me

    I am the only one who gets to decide if they can

    That’s what I believed

    That’s what I thought

    But things don’t seem to work that way


    The first time a boy asked me paint on my canvas I said no

    But he must not have heard me

    Because the next thing I knew his fingers were painting all over it


    The second time a boy asked me to paint on my canvas, I said no

    And he heard me

    But he didn’t listen

    And he took it upon himself to wildly swing his brush around and splatter paint all over my canvas


    The third time a boy asked me just to see my canvas I said no

    So he kept asking until I said yes


    When the fourth boy asked me if he could paint on my canvas, I didn’t even want to paint on it myself

    There were someone else’s fingerprints and someone else’s brush splatters

    My canvas didn’t feel like mine anymore

    It belonged to those who felt they could paint on it whenever they wanted

    No matter how much I begged and pleaded for them to stop

    So I lifted the Sheet that hid the paint splattered surface and I said “Go nuts.”

    He asked me “Are you sure?”

    No

    But you are just going to do it anyways so get it over with


    For the first time ever

    My canvas felt a brush stroke

    And then another

    And then another

    Until he was done

    And what he left was something I didn’t expect


    I had grown so use to brush splatters

    And fingers making a mess of my paints

    But he made a picture

    And for once I felt okay with someone painting with me


    How nice it would be if the story ended there


    I didn’t feel like painting one morning

    My wrist hurt from painting the night before

    But he wouldn’t let it go

    “What if we do this?”

    No, I said it hurts

    “This?”

    No, it hurts

    “Come on we’ll be quick.”

    I said it hurts

    “But I want to paint. Here, let’s do this.”


    I didn’t know brush strokes could hurt

    I thought they were supposed to be good

    Supposed to make pretty pictures that you want to hang on the wall

    Not rip through the cloth of the canvas


    I didn’t want to paint anymore


    I poorly sewed the holes in the canvas back up

    And I stapled the sheet to it

    I didn’t want to see it anymore

    I didn’t want anyone else to see it either


    I couldn’t help but wonder what to do with it now

    Part of me still wanted to paint

    Still believed that canvas could be mine again

    But that other part kept telling me it never would be


    Months had gone by before I even thought about painting again

    But painting with no inspiration is not worth it to me

    Because I deserve someone who will help me paint a masterpiece 

    Instead of doing whatever they want and making me paint when I don’t want too


    And there comes a time when you get sick and tired of seeing that old and dirty sheet everyday

    Knowing the torn up and paint stained mess that lies beneath

    For too long I kept it covered up

    For too long I hid it from any artist who even showed interest

    But how could anyone ever love me for me if I keep hiding my canvas from them?

    That’s right

    My canvas


    They may have rubbed their paint stained finger on it

    They may have banged against it with their brushes

    And ripped through it because they wouldn’t stop when I told them too

    But I’m the one that sewed it back together


    That is my canvas

    It is already a masterpiece

    And they’re gonna need to try a lot harder if they want to destroy it


    So

    If someone decides not to respect your canvas

    Remember this:


    Your canvas is your own

    It is not what other people have painted on it


    ©squidge422

  • shamli_mali 10w

    A blank canvas let's you have a beautiful picture
    End past stories for a new one to happen!!

    ©shamli_mali

  • writetothemoon 11w

    I have seen splashes of colors from red to violet, the color spectrum, unfold before my eyes when we suddenly crossed each other’s lives. The fleeting encounter painted my life as if it were a blank canvas, dull and melancholic.

    You first painted me in scarlet hues. You embroidered beautiful meadows of memories, imprinting the stars and galaxies in it; the same stars you have in your eyes.

    I was fond of it, until you splattered a bit of red paint on another canvas, almost creating a masterpiece. The scarlet hues you used to paint me grew darker, and darker—resembling my furious orbs.

    Such predicament passed, and it made us stronger. The canvas grew warm, and warmer into an orange tint. Flamboyance is all I see, and there was yellow. You were a ball of sunshine that never burned me even if we were always close. Your warmth made the canvas go green—tranquility there was, and I was a calm sea.

    I never thought that calmness would draw a storm close to the castle we were building, just because you were serving two with only one umbrella. You were sheltering me in your arms while holding another.

    I grew jealous and sad. I thought the rain would wash away the colors you painted me with, but I was wrong as it mixed up, turning into the hues of blue. Comforting but forlorn.

    With sadness as my company, I learned to love sincerely. It grew deeper until it was unfathomable, but I knew it was there.

    I did not complain about all these things. I just went beyond until it broke me. My pieces were the only ones left of me. Shards of pain, grains of paint. I was broken but I stood still—I was invincible. Violet paint covered me—with modesty and wisdom, there, I let you go.

    I cut the strings and you were trying to reach out and stitch it back, but I went too far, to the galaxies and stars. There was freedom.

    I grew fond of solitude and when I tried catching you again, I felt nothing. The colors had all mixed up. I cannot heed a sign that any new color unknown to my sight is about to come. I was again mistaken for I did not realize how dark violets can go that I could not distinguish it anymore. Realizations hit me, it was not anymore violet—the colors you painted me with, turned black.

    -----
    photo credits (c)
    IG acct: @cottonbro

    #void #darkness #lessons #love #life #experiences #heartbreak #canvas #painting #filipino #filipinowriter #prose @mirakee @mirakeeworld @writersnetwork @writersbay @odysseus

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  • sonu99 13w

    Pretty Tulips,
    With their rainbow colours;
    Painted the nature
    With canvas washed with petals.

    ©sonu99

  • ice_adonis 16w

    #mirakee #mirakeeassistant #writersnetwork #writersbay #writersbureau #fullstops. #metaphor #poetry #spokenword #poet #canvas #art

    @mirakee @mirakeeassistant @writersbureau @writersbay @writersnetwork

    CANVAS

    Every time I let lose, an abundance of verses hit my canvas. A brilliant burst of colours, shades of lifetime memories unfurling like the petals of the centennial fragrance in bloom. Each stroke telling tales of the life of a floating debris.

    Tales of art. Blending shades of blue with blood crimson. Splattering emotions. Tainting the eyes that see. The feet that seek. The quill that glints. With verses distorted. Letters written upside down. Images carved sideways. A poet's rage rests on this page.

    This page reeks of decay. The jumbled thoughts of a depressed poet seeking the light of a dawn hidden in the shell of hope. Waiting. Tapping her foot to an unheard melody. The symphony of cacophonies. Birthing words that do not rhyme. Thoughts that do not align. Birthing verses that reek of pain. Lines that yell "escape".

    A poet's silence screams chaos. Chants deep thoughts. Yells a million profanities. Her breath is one with the wind. Stormy.

    Faltering steps and squinting gazes. A poet's heart is weak, her sight is bleak.

    A poet is found in the scribbles of another, like the silent lyrics of an unbirthed artist stringing his guitar in time to the note of ricocheting memories. A poet is found in lines like "broken promises" and "a million pairs of eyes". A poet is found in your lies and unsaid words, in your deceit and in that single gaze.

    Nostalgia hits like the scent of dinner to a hungry wanderer. Like lapping up every essence. Like full stops in a piece that isn't eulogy or ode but speaks so much of a poet, folded in these lines.

    A poet deciphers your thought, she eats your lyrics, chewing flesh and crushing bones, a poet deciphers your thought.

    A poet carves breathes and words and emotions and thoughts. A poet drowns her canvas in shades of blue and crimson blood and creates a masterpiece.

    She never runs out of art. A poet.

    ©Ice_Adonis

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    CANVAS

    CANVAS

    Every time I let lose, an abundance of verses hit my canvas. A brilliant burst of colours, shades of lifetime memories unfurling like the petals of the centennial fragrance in bloom. Each stroke telling tales of the life of a floating debris.

    Tales of art. Blending shades of blue with blood crimson. Splattering emotions. Tainting the eyes that see. The feet that seek. The quill that glints. With verses distorted. Letters written upside down. Images carved sideways. A poet's rage rests on this page.

    This page reeks of decay. The jumbled thoughts of a depressed poet seeking the light of a dawn hidden in the shell of hope. Waiting. Tapping her foot to an unheard melody. The symphony of cacophonies. Birthing words that do not rhyme. Thoughts that do not align. Birthing verses that reek of pain. Lines that yell "escape".

    A poet's silence screams chaos. Chants deep thoughts. Yells a million profanities. Her breath is one with the wind. Stormy.

    Faltering steps and squinting gazes. A poet's heart is weak, her sight is bleak.

    A poet is found in the scribbles of another, like the silent lyrics of an unbirthed artist stringing his guitar in time to the note of ricocheting memories. A poet is found in lines like "broken promises" and "a million pairs of eyes". A poet is found in your lies and unsaid words, in your deceit and in that single gaze.

    Nostalgia hits like the scent of dinner to a hungry wanderer. Like lapping up every essence. Like full stops in a piece that isn't eulogy or ode but speaks so much of a poet, folded in these lines.

    A poet deciphers your thought, she eats your lyrics, chewing flesh and crushing bones, a poet deciphers your thought.

    A poet carves breathes and words and emotions and thoughts. A poet drowns her canvas in shades of blue and crimson blood and creates a masterpiece.

    She never runs out of art. A poet.
    ©Ice_Adonis

  • shamli_mali 17w

    A blank canvas is an untold story

    ©shamli_mali

  • mystery_in_words 20w

    @mystery_in_words

  • aishwarya_mishra 21w

    A Canvas Without Colour

    Everyone has a method of expressing interminable sentiments. Writers connect by bringing the genuine musings . Painter draws the narrative of writers...an entertainer plays that story....where as an artist adds the excellence to the canvas of the play. CANVAS a daily existence time accomplishment for a painter and a genuine page in the narrative of a writer..The musings , the minds , the embrassment and the commitment towards an individual's life all are an aspect of a delicate canvas. Have u ever thought our lives too have a canvas . we conceived as an infant and from that day we are the individual from this canvas however before the birth there is a canvas too..we may not have associated with the external side of the wall...but we live the life inside the divider doing the same thing as we do after our introduction to the world...

    We the people tend to Shade this canvas some of the time with our minds and around then we don't know about the genuine realities that this canvas can be broken too , in light of the fact that creative mind have no boundary ,and a thing without limit and impediments you all can comprehend there is no other outcome than destruction.sometimes we are glad by carrying on with this life and shading the canvas like this.but towards the end what happens, we utilize endless hues that we cannot distinguish the accuracy of it.we need to play every and each role..we might some of the time cry like a baby..might have once in a while extreme like a stone and might have at times utilize the heart and mind together...then canvas of life can get his genuine touch..but we have never thought like this and we too cant.our only motive to fulfill the endless desire and the desires are expanding like the mathematical movement and the outcome is a CANVAS WITHOUT COLOUR ...think about this...

    ©aishwarya_mishra

  • _anonymous_poet_ 21w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 8 word micro-tale on Canvas

    @mirakee @inkscapeco @writersnetwork

    #love #canvas #colours #pod

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    Canvas

    You painted my black and white canvas with colours.
    ©_anonymous_poet_

  • angels_halo_shines 24w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 10 word micro-tale on Canvas

    #empath #empathmind #mirakee #writersnetwork #life #canvas #10wordmicrotale #10wordsrory #writersbay #ceesreposts

    Painting by my daughter Lilly ♥️����

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    Born into an empty canvas, spending our lives capturing colors.
    ©angels_halo_shines419

  • loving_heart 25w

    My love

    You are the canvas
    Of my love. On which
    I can draw every single line
    Of my life and decorate it
    By every colour of my love.

    ©loving_heart

  • srisaptoawaits22 27w

    Canvas...

    She's the softest canvas,
    Run my breathes like,
    Illusions of colours,
    My finger flow in her forehead,
    Yes, in the way,
    As the colour walks with water,
    Ruined brushes, rejuvenate,
    Trembling against the canvas.
    ©pagla..(with)

  • thebhavnasaxena 27w

    Wooed

    Kiss me with your words tonight,
    Let your verses stroke my soft
    Flesh, let your voice ensnare
    My mind, come let us sit by
    The fireside, reading to each
    Other, daydreaming together,
    Tell me, what scents remind
    You of me, peel my inhibitions
    Away, I want to get intoxicated
    On the surreal joy love has to
    Offer, make my heart anew,
    A blank canvas, yearning for the
    Crimson of your passion,
    And the rose of your tender affection,
    I want to be wooed, if I offer you
    My innocence clasped between
    The pages of a book, tell me how
    Would you corrupt me in the
    Delicious sins of womanhood?
    ©thebhavnasaxena

  • bleedingkalam 28w

    TEARS

    His chest was the canvas to my tears; my tears painting the picture of our severance.

    ©bleedingkalam

  • bleedingkalam 28w

    CANVAS

    Life is a canvas and memories add the colours

    ©bleedingkalam