Painted

A random poem I wrote.

 

A dab of red

upon swollen lips.

Brush to canvas,

colors and countours.

The stroke of a hand.

A wisp of hair.

Bold.

Furious.

Exhilarating.

Stroke after stroke,

paint flies onto the canvas.

A scene emerges.

Breathtaking.

Beautiful.

Unreal.

The claw of reality.

Rips.

Tears.

Shreds.

The water of renewal.

Cleanses.

Fades.

 

Forgets.

 

Author's Note

This isn't just about painting. I used painting as a sort of metaphor for a rather intimate encounter. But as consequences and reality are, such blissful things cannot remain, and thus is forces to be forgotten...
It was based on a personal account.

Reviews

[Stephanie]

It's very creative and imaginative nonsense then... :] This was beautiful. A canvas full of vivid colors until they're washed away. Awesome imagery and amazing poem!

[Kenny L. Mitchell]

WoW! Very impressive! You truly have skills! Loved it!

[Infamous Real]

Just rinse and repeat... oh if only she would learn that true beauty comes from within. Did I get the interpretation? Great poem, no nonsense here. Very deep I'd say.

[Tom Q]

Inspiration followed by degradation justified by artistic license thus allowing the process to start over.
So many feel this, thanks.

[fauxcajun]

Like writing a six hundred page novel and putting it into the shredder / Sometimes it is merely the work which is involved with creative writing/painting, etc., that really matter . . .

[Jessica]

i liked this one its not just nonsense it actually means something
the beauty of a painting and it being destroyed just wonderfully written! Good Job!