Canvas Poems Novels & Stories

* I saw the beauty of the sky Colors so vibrant you'd think they never die * I saw the beauty of the waves Every splash telling a story of younger days * I saw the beauty of the rains Every drop falling freely like horses without reins * I saw the beauty of the night For only then were the stars alight * I saw the beauty in the flames of a fire Each one burning with a different desire * I saw the beauty of Gold Glistening with bitter stories untold * Oh I saw the beauty of dust and clay Simple reminders of our end someday.

It's been written to death. "No, June is immortal," cried Emily suddenly, a mutinous sparkle replacing the strained look in her eyes. She was not going to let Mr Carpenter have it all his own way. But Mr Carpenter had tossed June aside without reading a line of it. "'I weary of the hungry world'--what do you know of the hungry world?--you in your New Moon seclusion of old trees and old maids--but it is hungry. Ode to Winter--the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems--ha! 'Spring will not forget'--that's a good line--the only good line in it. H'm'm--Wanderings--

She had spent her whole life, only to end up with nothing in her hands. … Mom followed my wish and didn't take her own life. She faced no legal consequences because she had lost her sanity. For countless days and nights, she sat on a cramped bed in the psychiatric ward, staring blankly out the window. She kept singing something unconsciously, her voice faint and soft. Only by leaning in very close could one hear that she was singing a well-known lullaby. "Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird. And if that mocking bird don't sing, Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring."

I'm sure my religious Russian mother would've had a heart attack if she knew what I was doing right now, but I couldn't be bothered enough to care. A blank canvas has unlimited possibilities. While we start out painting the perfect picture, things don't always go as planned. Our canvas got smudged along the way. We accidentally mixed the wrong colors, and some of the lines turned out jagged. At the end of it though, it's ours, and that's what makes it priceless.

Inside it, traces of pale yellow powder remained. Michael's face lost all its color. He pounced like a madman trying to retrieve the vial, but I was quicker than him. I stepped on the vial and looked at him icily. "This is proof, right? Michael, you're finished."

“My back is paining at such an early age nowadays it only makes me feel old rather than feeling younger ash. I really wish if I could fly up above the sky and see the colourful world same as the eagle." "Well, it's not like that will happen in this birth," Koishi chuckles Blinking his eyes a few times singing in response staring at it the incomplete painting of the canvas. Flower field of daffodil under the water with a boy drowning. The splashed spots over it almost with the scribbles covering more than half of it. “Only if I was a bird, flapping my wings in the sky then I would-" he mumbles under his breath. Laying still on the floor he can feel his eyes he can feel swept away in the darkn

I can't promise the sun always warms the morning like the warmth of dew on a leaf I can't give the stars always shine but the light misses me every night I can't send a red rose every day but the embers of jealousy rage when you are far from me I can't compose a beautiful poem only my prayers as a guardian of your steps If the twilight stays orange even when it's cloudy, if the moon is still dim even in the dark then you're still my curved rainbow after the rain on my veranda that I always hug If the sky isn't always blue If the lake is not always green So let me paint you on a white canvas of the heart

Franc’s sketches found quiet comfort among them, as if they had been waiting to belong. Mae’s gathering that evening, Ripples & Roots, unfolded like a soft tide washing over eager shores. The local poets shared verses dipped in nostalgia and rebellion, their words echoing against the crooked walls. Wandering painters displayed canvases streaked with the ache of distant places. Visitors clutched notebooks not just filled with questions but brimming with tentative answers.

No names. Just a stranger who helped me forget for one night. On Monday morning, I’m five minutes late to Renaissance Art, the elective I’m only taking because David said it would “round out my CV.” I quietly sit in the back row, avoiding everyone’s eyes. My whole body feels tired, and my heart feels empty. The professor is writing on the board with strong, sure strokes, his back turned. “Professor Mateo Sandoval” a student called. He turns around, about to answer the student and our eyes meet.