Painter Poems Novels & Stories

There was love in every color, meaning in every line. When we exchanged our canvas, I gasped. He had painted me. A version of me lost in joy, as I painted, a smudge of blue on my cheek, a tiny smile curling at my lips. The background melted into soft hues of dusk and wildflowers. “You painted me painting?” I laughed. Zevarion chuckled, a boyish grin lighting his face. “I wanted to capture what I see. The you that forgets the world when she’s creating something.”

“You talk like a poet.” “I paint because I can’t write,” he replied. “But if I could…” His voice softened. “You’d be the sentence I never finish.” For once, Lena didn’t have a witty comeback. She just sat there, pulse hammering, feeling the weight of what wasn’t said the want, the restraint, the sheer impossibility of pretending this was still professional. Outside, the rain started again, tapping the glass. Damien looked out the window, then back at her. “Do you know what I think about when I paint now?”

This was my sanctuary, where I created all my masterpieces. “This is where I work,” I said. “Where truth lives.” He laughed. “Truth in paint? That sounds poetic.” I tilted my head, studying him the way I studied my subjects. He had the kind of face that told stories, sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, a mouth that held more restraint than ease. A man who thought too much before speaking. “Poetry isn’t far from the truth,” I said. “It’s just the truth that has learnt how to breathe.”

To be soil and song, both. Solen painted again yesterday. This time she painted absence. Not as emptiness, but as capacity. She touched her palm to a canvas she hadn't touched in years, and said, "It's ready now." The lines she drew were not of form, but of longing. She painted a door without hinges, and on the other side of it— not another room. Just light. But not the light of clarity. The light of curiosity. When I stood before it, I felt every promise I’d ever broken

“I mean – look at where we live. How could I not?” “It is beautiful here,” I said, nodding my head approvingly. “Do you write?” “I try,” he laughed. “It’s not exactly William Blake or Thomas Hardy, but I enjoy it.” “I think that’s what really matters. I love to paint with Rosa, but if we’re trying to paint a mountain, say, she’ll paint a mountain and I’ll paint a triangle. I just can’t do it – but I love to try. I’m sure your poems are good, though. I’d love to read one someday, if you felt comfortable with that.”

Alyssa's eyes glazed over at what she read. "Oh my gosh! Is what I'm reading true?" She still couldn't believe what she read. Mr. Gregorio Santillan is a well-known great painter. Almost all of Gregorio's paintings are exhibited in art galleries, it wins an award every year. But year 2016 the artist quit because of his family’s tragedy. Alyssa suddenly felt sadness for the painter. "It's good that Mr. Gregorio looks fine," Alyssa said to herself. She was referring to the painter.

Not signing felt like a betrayal of the freedom I’d bled for. I tried to paint. Desperation fueled the strokes, thick, angry slashes of Payne’s Grey and Van Dyke Brown, the colors of despair and decay. But the gold leaf I instinctively reached for felt like a lie. How could I summon light when my inner landscape was choked with shadows? The canvas became a battlefield mirroring my heart, chaotic and unresolved.

“Then what’s the point.” That made me pause. Because that question wasn’t even sarcastic. It was genuinely him trying to understand. So I sat up a little, book forgotten for the moment. “Poetry makes things deeper than plain boring words,” I said slowly, choosing it carefully. “It’s like asking why an art painting tells a story instead of just writing the story underneath it. It’s not just about information. It’s about feeling it.” He stared at me for a second. Then leaned forward slightly. “You don’t have to go all diplomatic,” he said. “Just say what you want to say.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I did.”

After a few attempts of scrubbing them off, she decided to give up. 'I will buy an acid for this, my floor is ridiculously ugly.' She finished her painting and faced her school works. While bitting her pen, and formulating the answer. Her hand find paper, a clean paper, and started scribing letters. 'Blood runs down your vein, Faith scribes on your palm, Even your body is full of numbness Life goes on when it seems lifeless.' The poem was fuel to her. Every poem she wrote was a hidden story she kept. To avoid it from building up, she let it out through the ink of her pen.

"I agree. I find solace in poetry for similar reasons. It helps me articulate my thoughts and feelings in a way that doesn't always come naturally in conversation." Marvis gestured towards one of her paintings. "This one represents the struggle for acceptance and the journey towards finding one's place in the world. It's a reflection of my own experiences, a tale of resilience and hope." Jace studied the painting intently. "It's incredibly powerful. The vibrant colors seem to battle against the darkness, creating a sense of hope amidst the struggle. It's as if each stroke tells a story."