Poems about art


№ 1210286

[ art boy ]

Poor art boy,
His mind was a gallery,
Full of art,
Until the factory
Of society,
Came along polluting it,
With reality,
And tearing it apart.
Poor art boy,

art,  boy.

Author: m i a
Date: 07/04/2020

№ 1209854


A pretty beast, a flaming heart.
Fires ignition, all for art.
Strands of ribbons.
Tangled up intrinsically.
In elastic,
Beauty bound.
From depths within the psychic hold.
Cold as snow drops.
They're kissing the rain.
Warm as ribbons, a little frayed.
Summer for winter winds,
Come along pray let us trade.
Beat winters marching.
His tyrant, his tirade.
Sharp and tart.
Poetic art.
Barter with him for lost summers bliss.
(C) Livvi

art,  pretty.

Author: Olivia Kent
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1209024

My Art

My madness is my singularity
My endless tears and sparks
Are breaking me apart

This body can only take so much
This my nest of an unfortunate
This vessel called me

My man machine attitude
The robot within me
This sensitive creative me

May I sing words of wisdom
Put my heart on a plate
My gift to you is my art.

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris


Author: Christos Andreas Kourtis
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1208780


If art is defined as the expression of something beautiful or extraordinary,
Then you, my dear,
Are a *masterpiece


Author: pen sive
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1208252

Redon's Art

My nexus is Taft
In delight of "Bouquet of Flowers"
That inner vision of democracy
That popular work for peace is pastel
Only ludicrous is thought that foreshadow him
As memory in recall thus prosperity
While conservative intent with Supreme Court


Author: Scott F Hemingway
Date: 05/04/2020

№ 1207551

Creating A Work of Art from Scrap

I am not a work of art. I don't have that much beauty in me to help me create one. I've always wanted something that might help me with my works. Whispering trees, mocking buildings, silent pavements, weary soil; everything that used to work simply drives me numb now. Being too absorbed into my works for these past few months, I failed to notice a change so near that pretty much sparked me.

Who needs trees with their leaves of wire under the smoking mid-day sun to inspire your art if your standard of beauty lies near to you?

My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair, it went under his shoulder and always managed to fall graciously like confounded summer leaves. The temperate air would sometimes brush it away from his face instead of his own two hands. My hair is short, dry, and plump. Hanging like a rope up to my chin only. One of the sole reason his hair is the thing I started to cherished the most, and had started to become my favorite object to paint. I still can see the shine glimmering strand by strand; framing his smile in a grotesque manner.

My sweetheart had a long, beautiful hair. It was a pity he did not like it as much as I did, despite taking care of it in the best way possible. I can still remember the unsettling shadow whenever he looked down and was darkened by the dim complexion of his soft raven hair. Always the peculiar inspiration to my art. He was a work of art, an original beauty.

My sweetheart had a breathtaking long hair, it had been an oblivious month or two since the last time I saw him, before isolating myself with tons of faded colors. His long hair ignited me, but gradually it tortured me, tossing me unimaginable fear for I could not paint it in its natural beauty. All I could think of was:

I might ruin beauty.

What a shame, I was filled with spirit before being frustrated all over again.

My sweetheart had a heartbreaking long hair, which he promised to cut sooner or later. My sweetheart had a melancholic long hair, a beautiful thing that led us to a mouthful argument and rough doublespeak. He shouldn't have planned to cut it, I practically begged him to not to. I am lost within my mind, how am I supposed to continue working if the only thing that I was trying to paint went away?

I had a sweetheart who had a gorgeous long hair and I was a selfish imbecile and a stray soul.

I wouldn't bear a single thoughts of seeing him without the dark curtains wrapping his head like the parlor of an old fortune teller.

How am I supposed to work with him?

The only things I have are these empty canvases, paint in the colors of tears, and paintbrush.


Gather your material, prepare for the bristles.
It could be made of various materials,
Animal hair,
Such as:
Horse hair, from the mane and the tail,
Or any other kind of animals with long hair,
Needle trees and grasses,
Synthetic hair,
Human hair.

Second, prepare the handle of your brush.
Bamboos, sticks from one's own yard are recommended,
For a professional look, we suggest doweling.

Next, select a strong adhesive to attach the bristle to the handle. You would have to spread the adhesive glue to the tip of the handle and attach it with the bristle.

After that, wait for the glue to dry before you carry on to the next step.
Find a strong material like metal or rope to bind the handle and the bristle together.

And there you have your home-made personal brush.

Despite making it in a rush and on a drunken heart, I pretty much loved the result.

If only you did not argue to cut your hair.
If only I could think clearly, better than this,
I could still see my sweetheart's eloquent long hair in its most proper and beautiful form, to ignite my heart even more.
Not in the form of this crappy, hellbound paintbrush I made myself in the most abhorrence manner.

I should not have gnashed your head to the tip of my easel after you told me your little desire of having a shorter hair,
I should not have been that ill-tempered, overflowing your head with warm red liquid.

Ah well,
My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair and a fresh thick blood.
At least I would still have the chance to work with him though I can see him no longer.
I have his soft hair attached onto my paintbrush, giving me the wildest dream,
And his blood in the color of blooming red Chrysanthemum,
It should not have happened,
But what could be better than this?

art,  creating,  scrap,  work.

Author: Noandy
Date: 04/04/2020

№ 1207239

When we are art

Fill in the empty spaces -
Your fingers are brushes
For this canvas and
I am an unfinished piece.


Author: voided heart
Date: 04/04/2020

№ 1207163

The art of this world

As he crafts his world he stops
To add just a few drops
Of color to his otherwise gray
And desolate landscape. A ray
Of sunshine here, a dash
Of forest that seems to crash
Into the dark hues of the sky.
He adds stars that twinkle in his eye
And places the moon in the center
Of the night. Then the crickets enter
The peaceful scene, softly humming a tune
Creating harmony with the moon.
The bright reds, greens, yellows, and blues
Are colored in, which is what truly glues
His masterpiece together, but it
Isn't complete without a little bit
Of chaos that comes from people.


Author: Ashley Dennis
Date: 04/04/2020