Learn more about other poetry terms

You had me at first glance You gave me more than just a chance   You lit a fire in me that I can never defuse You are the artist that became my muse
This is how we deal with things Red, blue, purple, green Splashes of paint against the canvas of life Leaving our marks in the world   Black   The color of tragedy and of growth
To be an artist is to create something that expresses abstract emotions and to translate them into the language of the senses.  
When the rain falls on to the asphalt And petrichor smells erupt, I'll remember the cloudy days spent in my room, My mind full of inspirations and ambition To create a beautiful painting.
Grounding me, similar to the acts of a ship’s anchor You are my stability. Anxiously waiting to hit land,  We met,  like wave greeting beach
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
He tried, got to see her outstretched arms evaporate, what we see when morning light obliterates the stars. Sunsets bathed in gold
Mr. Sean, you are the coolest person I know. When I met you, your hair had a streak of electric blue and it was the most badass thing I’d ever seen,
Do you know what it's like to open yourself up to the world....
Dear Ex   Love is an illusion of lust combined with a drug addiction, Finding pure happiness is nothing but a tall tale fiction, Vanished without closure I'm not ready for it to be over,
T'was once before the break of day when in the silence of a stored cachethere upon my memories ladder one ring above a thought came afterwhat was once so fine, so well placed, now lay defeated and disgraced
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
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.
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.
Every Morning i wake up To a feeling that i'm feeling that we ain't us, Pain in her eyes when i leave has her feeling anxious, A gut feeling in her pancreas,
Long hours of night are not meant for dreaming. They are for dreams to keep you awake - to fill books with imagination.
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
Industrial decay Left the workers in dismay. Jobs lost, life costs. The buildings are in ruin Yet the teenagers pursue in The creative inspiration This nation chases them away from.
You taught me that my body was for lease, that I was there for rent every time your "friend" kicked you out of your place, you signed our contract with rhymes cause you knew I've always had a thing for emcees, wanted to find love like Zeke and Myl
They prayed for you to succeed in all you do But what are you supposed to do When all you do Is make people proud? There is nothing that speaks to you And they speak to you
It’s cold this time of year Bitter fights White frosted hands and words School is tiring Dull and monotonous It is warm though
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
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
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?
I am the illustrator The masterpiece creator The doodler Subjective art form translator   Visionary artist
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 
5- Wake up, Start The Show 7- Get Up, Get Ready, Start Class 5-  Pull Lines, Feel the Flow. 
  The biting exchange of night into morning is here. I lay coldly, intertwined in crimson sheets and tangled hair. Awake from a daze into the new day,
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
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
When I was young I wanted the spotlight. I did whatever I could to have people notice me. Now, not that much. I guess that is what happens When you want to hide from the bullies.
                                                                                                         So very few people Know how to convey The making of this world,
I could never draw a picture to my satisfaction The colors, texture, or shading Never matched the image in my mind’s eye I could see it as clear as day A forest with tall trees, the plush moss covered ground
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
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,
A couple clicks On a bright screen In a dimly lit familiar place New seats take the frustration away But no the panic of deadlines Or the anxiety of competition  Among the better graphics 
With words of poison in my direction, I am an artist.Express feeling with color and word;paintbrush and pen.  
I am an artist  I am a painter  I am the brush, flowing on the canvas  I am the canvas, being tickled by the hairs of the brush  I am the color, being picked to make a master piece  I am the master piece 
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.
I am slowly changing like a painting manipulated and altered by multiple artists. The artists and I grow old together. My tattered corners must add some character to me, right?
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,
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
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 The river of thought that flows through the imagination of those who connect with paper and pen
This artist is prisoned, In thoughts of grassy head. Many things describes him, But few expresses. He is empty with childhood memories, Away from freedom of another soul.
I am a listener, Awakening to the sounds of the day, Swaying to the whispering rhythms that no one else can hear, And feeling cool, like in awesome, with goosebumps on my arms.  
I am Lucas. Yet people insist that I am someone named "Hannah", Someone that is no longer me. I am male. Yet people insist that I am female
I Am….   An artist I create I imagine I think  
I used to wonder why  The other five year olds could never  Color between the lines- My parents said I would be an artist, 
When I am no longer May my daughter be brilliantandBeautiful 10 times stronger when I'm no longer May she have knowledge and aspire to be wise the ability and confidence to rise when I am no longer
I am cursive.
Frightening being in a strangers home
Ink-smudged hands betray me Proof that I'm still fighting  My thoughts can be rambunctious I don't quite know where I am
I do not care if the matter be dark or the tone grim.I care not if what is described be gore or sin.A well-turned phrase stirs attention deep within. I do not say this merely on a whim.
Though my stars be dark and my spirit black It is not without reason that you find this lack Of empathy, pity, mercy, or care For others of similar gare.   My stars were darkened by the sun
My parched mind searches far and wide,
Yes I can get a little over excited,  apparently I'm told I do the most. For as long as I could remember,  I felt more joy with others than being by myself or "alone." 
ArtistAwkward, CreativeDrawing, Painting, SculptingStudent, Teacher, Woman, Man Sketching, Creating, ThinkingFunny, IntelligentProducer
"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 wake up to the sun rays filtering through my bamboo screens. I pause, drenched in the warm honey glow of an almost summer morning. I crawl, scramble in a generally awkward fashion,
Perfection in sublime imperfection Unique by design, The Creator’s creation echoes Eternal Soaring, reverberating, carving past present streams of stalagmites, the stale and the nocturnal  
I'm addicted to beauty, Addicted to destruction. I'm addicted to pieces and broken things Because I'm trying to find my "whole". I'm addicted to the sunrise, And to the moonrise,
Quiet, I sit and take in the world, spinning in drifts -- golden flecks of ash— a cloud of shimmering possibilities shade my reality.
There's a girl in my English classwho always looks out the windowand sketches little people on the side of her spiral notebook.
If the artist cannot find her pen, What is she? Then? A girl? Or, simply a human without a purpose or so the world tells her.
Today I saw her smile break (over again - Hope cracked open and spilling out her eyes to drain away Like the colour in her face) And it hurt just as much as it did the first time
At 6am, I'm miserable. Time to get out of bed, move my behind, Clock in for $7.25 at the daily grind, Eight hours for this is fucking criminal.   At noon, I'm finally awake.
As people say I am not I look around and find an empty lot I try not to worry for they never understand My gift and duty I have on hand.
My hair my nails my tan? All rockin'! But how might you ask is my body not shockin'?
Why am I kickass?  My grades are quite high, for me the girls would die, I've got luscious brown hair,  when you're older you'll care, I jump high for my heighth also, I'm white.
My skin is the skin that God put me in on the day that was the day of the 17th in the month of November the year being the one-thousand nine-hundred nintey-seventh year Anno Domini....
I was born, generation 96,
I am strong
The beauty of love, Is that it cannot be sought, It cannot be tracked, It can only be found, Sometimes in the most unlikely of places
I'm no Barbie.But I Thought I Should be.Compared myselfTo girls of the Barbie standard.Hurt myselfThinking all about'perfection'.
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.
This is my peom about how I feel, I never realized how hard itd be to peel, back all the visual standards to better reveal. My inner desires, thoughts turning my wheel. Well here I am, and this is what I'll say,  
Im not afraid to show it, I dont care if people know it. I love myself. Ive taught myself to think it, I live, breathe, drink it. I love myself. Mirrors use to make me cry, now I dont even have to try. I love myself.
Dear Artists,   We all have 3 common grounds of expressions   I. One common idea to keep our feets grounded while the rest of our heads wandering in the universe Because we artists are the universe
Why does the wind blow on the other side? Feeling as if I'm trapped in my own of forgetfullness
Writing you this poem reflects my lovemakes you doubt, it’s hard to concealAccused to things that’s hard to dealso please erase the doubts above. Trust is like freeing a dove
Beautiful black butterflies stirred up the wind,  and with God's assistance a southern breeze created my beautiful brown skin. Skin that glistens in the sun and blends with the night.
On an overcast December morning, my mother gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Bob, my mother addressed my father. There is something that the doctor has just told me about Gabriel.
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.
By chord or page by leap or stroke by chisel or chainsaw  creation is done.   Process,  more or less can impact success.   Chord by chord notes bring melody 
My mind is like an old paintbrush;
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 would rather fall into a pit
I flew upon the fragrant wings
He was gone before I could meet him Still, I knew him The pictures hung on the wall Lonely.   The scenic views he saw His passion apparent in every stroke Charcol smeared and painted
I’m sorry fatherSometimes I forget to pray
I am a chameleon The colorful pariah Blending in so perfectly To painted walls behind us Oh, how can I know myself? When I'm never the same No anchor set no place my home Of business and whimsy
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
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 
A beautiful house sits on a hill One that was built from scratch I watched as the owner designed it;
  And twenty shaky smiles grow into squeals and squawks of joy
To help, to endure, and to care, To make the world, noble and fair, To be able to heal the child with grace, To return them to a parent's embrace, To say I assisted children in need,
African Skies
Starving Desperate, Hopeless Wishing, Wanting, Begging College, Debt, Wealthy, Employed Striving, Achieving, Believing
There I'll be Face to face with the Mona Lisa 
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
I've gone through everything. Encouragement; Discouragement. Praise; Ridicule. Advice; Sabotage. You name it, my art has felt it. Then, an opportunity, a chance! A risk, a gamble.
I was a woman drowning in my own tears, bound by the chains of my own depression. No one around to listen to my story and be the ear to my painful confessions.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" "An artist," I innocently answered my parents at four years of age. "What do you want to be in the future?"
Your lips, your eyes, your soul, Are like a work of art, The most creative thing of all, Is your beautiful heart. If you were a painting, no colors could express the beauty deep inside you, A rainbow, nothing less.
A scruffy young man observes in the corner;
An artist’s mind is often swallowed by indigenous thoughts. Trying to balance ones conceptions on a fine thread.
Life is but a picture painted by God Everything we discover and every step we take Is another brush stroke in his creation From every atom to every galaxy there is beauty For us to find an adventure which is life
What is the idea that started this all? The one that broke the glass?
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,"
The artist who uses blood for paint The boy who needs to love Her passion and fury she fears will taint One like a gentle dove
You--spill over margins, between lines lace ink with weakness--Your-- trembling fingers aching viscera cold sweats--pouring between shoulders, and flinching limbs--blood pumped by,
You said you wished the stars were red,so I pulled them down one by oneand painted them by hand,for you.
I always wanted to be an artist -  to capture life in two dimensions, to see beyond the commonplace -  who knows that makes us tick   I always wanted to have a medium - 
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
No Canvas displayed, No Brush, No Crayons, But In a Matter of Second: the Whole World is Changed into a Beautiful scenery: No Human Being can follow His Genius Art! He is using the Nature as His Canvas, and His Crayons!
A girl with a silent struggle Words caught in her throat Carefully blended in Edges too blurred Easily missed. Someone with a name But a name of no distinction. “What’s in a name?
How do you spell that? What does it mean? In what language? What are you mixed with? So which one of your parents is black? Wait, one fourth white? How does that work? What kind of asian are you?
The cocks are crowing for you— Wild, unwavering alarm. "They do so five times a day, at the times for prayer," You explained to me then. Nobody know's why. Sitting on the wicker mat, ataaya falling from your cup to mine.
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.
On the outside I'm strong But on the inside I'm in Hell I make subtle cries But no one who notices will help
(poems go here) On the outside I'm strong But on the inside I'm in Hell I make subtle cries But no one who notices will help
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.
The Queen of Spades is so close to I the Ace. Almost there!- BUM! A questionable and ache inflamed and infested the sweet plum of my face. And now, it hurts on my back, the back body of the space.
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.
I am the epitome of a starving artist I read poems under the light of the moon and I guess you can say I want everything a little too soon
Hidden from the world, years spent tucked away Did you hear me calling? Crying out your name? Shunned and left alone, corners and dark rooms A child with open scars, and burning wounds.
Subscribe to Artist