Best Masterpiece Poems
Suicide Masterpiece
Sweatdrop
On top
Trigger pop
Written note
All I got
Hang knot
Body rot
Suicide cop
I hope not
Cry out loud
I think not
Body's hot
I am too proud
I am loved a lot
Rooftop.
Suicide bride
Heavy rain
Your game
the same
Trapped shame
Gone insane
Who's to blame
Red stain
Suicide rain
Addictive dope
Needle hope
Poison taste
Drowning beer
Gunshot
Painless fear
Powder nose
Suicide dose
Razor blades
Flame stare
Pain fades
Sadden tear
Candle wax
Smoke dare
Burn down
Suicide flare
No bluff
No name
War zone
Innocent prey
Soul blown
Cry all day
Set mind
Suicide bomb
Terrorist
traffic jam
Plane jack
Headstrong
Help protect
Customs wrong
Dead plot
Suicide stop
------
stop the suicide
by:-)
Looking close at the blank canvas.
Impressions he wanted displayed.
Stroking slow and pressing his brush
an image came forth from Monet.
Laying dormant all of Her life.
Her moment in time had arrived.
The feelings She felt from within,
were delicate strokes, brushed by him.
They were gentle and soft to feel,
and made his love all the more real.
She was sad to feel him finish,
as Her tears fell and relinquished.
He assured her he'd never leave,
and in Her Heart She felt so pleased.
In completion of Her He saw,
His Masterpiece hung on His wall.
Michael Tor
I asked my Lord Jesus
to help in writing.
Inspired by my late
father Rene, a hobby
Painter and Sculpturer.
Also inspired by John
Watt and his PoemThat
Starry Night a Poem
about Vincent Van Gogh.
Masterpiece
By James Marshall Goff
picture
our planet
framed in
~LOVE~LOVE~
L L
O our O
V planet V
E E
~LOVE~LOVE~
Atop The Table
'an empty verse'
and empty hands
~understand~
The glass in hand
can drown out ten-
thousand and ten;
Hearts,
~emptiness~
' '
looking for
?
a
f
l
o
w
e
r
''
''
'
' '
"
"
,
',
',
(Oh, Holy Nights)
on bend-ed knee
enlightened to see,
Ten Drops from the Glass
Love you,
Merry Christmas! :)
Lucinda
Paint me..
a picture of disaster
of Self pity
of little worth
of meaninglessness
on a cornflower blue background
and red brush strokes
signify me..
put me on canvas
on display
for all to see and
criticize
because even
free wine and
hors d’oeuvres
will never be
enough
this grand
opening
isn’t for them
or even
for you
it
is
for
Me
I am a masterpiece
to capture the true
essence of what lies
behind my eyes
create a palette of
black pastels portraying
the shadow that follows like death
a constant visitor to my d o o r
nobody knows the
story of my heart
an artificial anecdote of
a l l i t e r a t i v e a n g s t
bleeding in metaphorical
ink stained tear drops
d r o w n i n g childhood
sanity in shallow rivers of
bittersweet s o r r o w
fate is a fragile wrecking ball
which has become too hard to love
soul craves to be free under horizons
of tangerine temptations
but all I find is twilight with
a filthy feldgrau sky
fatigue imitates the
last breaths of a
b r o k e n b u t t e r f l y
as 'spirit' becomes imprisoned
in sinister silence
yearning to sleep
forever in an unfolding
labyrinth hidden from the
golden colours of the sun
this smile cannot
continue to pretend
kismet is a
crimson clandestine
cursed t a l i s m a n
speech is my harbinger
of d o o m
miraculous ink
flutters in my pen of
p u r i f i c a t i o n
yet not all verses are
meant to be understood
cathartic martyrdom
sounds like poetry
but there is no remedy
for magenta manifestations
so I curse the poetic limerence
of my tongue suppressing
effervescent emotions
inside a garnet treasure
chest of blood-soaked
bruised and battered
invisible inflictions
I'm a mute masterpiece
drained from the pain
i told the Grim Reaper
i'm not afraid anymore
of all the lives we lived
this is my favourite
but he just smiled
then cried asking
"is this our last goodbye"
A merciless rhythm haunts him
in the chill, indigo night
thrilling scales move restlessly
inside his tormented mind
aching to be released.
He stares outside the rippled windowpane
vacuous trees are scattered shivering
lifeless leaves swirl about in listless clumps
yet the breath of revival awaits.
If only his fingers could move again
to feel the luxury of strong fingers
dancing over the keyboard
releasing compositions
from the flaming desire in his soul.
The ache of longing overwhelms him
weakly, he hums an intricate tune
as the cerulean frost collects
on high arched windows
angels listen with rapt attention.
I want to be an artist.
I want to create a piece if be proud of for the rest of my life.
Id peel back the skin, cutting the fat away until it was the perfect size.
then id mold it - shape it until it was just right.
Pulling muscles like clay, threading through blood vessels and veins like string, digging through the mess of myself and scraping away every inch until i loved what i saw.
every flaw,
carved out of my body until all the was left was absolute perfection
when im finished, id stitch the skin back over in a beautiful mess, - tight, trembling
and standing in the mirror, ill know -
i made the greatest art piece id ever see
they say, an artist greatest masterpiece is themselves.
It's an addiction.
She craves the friction.
The brush against the canvas,
The blood scented, crimson kiss.
This girl has nightmares every night,
She does sad things out of your sight.
She'll have moments where she feels okay,
But then she realizes the feeling does not stay.
This girl is chasing a never ending road.
She's holding onto love and won't let go.
And it's making her go crazy.
Her vision of what's real is getting hazy.
This girl loves theatre why you ask?
Because there she's SUPPOSED to put on a mask.
There she can be someone that she's certainly not.
There she can pretend to be anything she wants.
The girl doesn't understand a thing anymore.
She is feeling like a complete attention whore.
Isn't she that, though?
Maybe she isn't really her only foe...
But she is, really she commits a crime of hate.
How much she hates herself there is no debate.
She can't even explain it to anyone and that's okay,
Because no one would know what to say back anyway.
She thought she was lucky and she thought she was blessed.
Really her faith is just being put to the tragic test.
She thinks that possibly she's failing like always.
It is just like any other of her days.
People say she's enough but her mind is her biggest critic.
She just wishes someone would come along and get it.
Like he did the boy that went away.
The boy that's scars were starting to fade.
The best friend of this girl?
Yeah, she's in her own horrific world.
Falling apart at the seams.
While her own best friend lives in her dreams.
The artist has fallen off the edge.
She's been pushed past the ledge.
And no one is there to pull her up.
This would be just her luck.
What's the world? oh yeah, relapse.
This girl felt like she was about to collapse.
Drown under her brain's commands.
Fall down because of her demon's demands.
She's an artist with crazy dreams,
that happens to be falling apart at the seams.
She has no cause for her pain.
All she knows is what's in her brain.
summer brings colors
vibrant paintings surround us
God's masterpieces
My fingers ache—
muscles weary, spent, and sore.
Sweat soaks through my singlet.
Eyes grow heavy, begging for sleep,
to repay seventy-two hours denied.
Yet each piece I write ends in his bin.
The sponsor never seems to tire
of casting them away with mean regards—
a cross my restless heart must bear.
Would it not be better to run the race
on a track,
not behind a screen?
I could have run twenty-seven miles
in under two hours—breaking the record—
instead of these seventy-two with no glory.
There’s a method, even, in this my madness:
twenty-seven contests in a row,
each confined to forty-two lines,
echoing kilometers run on marathon tracks.
Yet my ink has dried, my paper stays blank.
I restrain my heartache deep within,
lest it spill its ache across my face,
where anger and disillusionment dwell,
hidden beneath facial creams and wry smiles,
till after work removes their weary veils.
Each day, each burdened weekday,
and each weekend, each joyless weekend,
I do my laundry, eat my meals,
beside the stubborn silence of this paper—
still waiting for its first word.
So tonight, I beg you, Sleep:
take away this sleeplessness.
For poems are better written in dreams.
Leave me there till I craft a masterpiece—
one no sponsor could ever deny of glory.
As I read the words my heart started to sing
For you had gave emotion to a non living thing
I can't ever remember feeling quite that way
I could hear the music that she used to play
I could feel her heart through the tears I cried
As I read the part where her Maestro had died
I imagined her there in her Rosewood Bed
Reading the most beautiful poem I’ve read
Velvet to her back with her bow at her side
Remembering the joy before Maestro died
She loved how his bow manipulated her strings
Together they were the most beautiful of things
What’s the only poem to ever hang in my den?
Elaine’s beautiful masterpiece titled, "Violin"
Inspired by Tracy's wonderful idea for
a contest and Elaine's beautiful Poem.
Morning masterpiece
~
Watercolor clouds wander
in early autumn dreams,
where delicate hues of
pastel woven ribbons
melt against a canvas
of blue chrysanthemum skies,
painting a soft lemon drop glow
in daffodil brushstrokes,
creating a brand new
morning masterpiece
for us to share
Good morning Soupers
Autumn takes her brush
Paints the earth with her beauty
Masterpiece of leaves
She flowed out of his sable brush
As if form became fluid
Indigo blue the first of hues
Each stroke a caress …
A teardrop sliding down his face
His memories piercing his heart
Sighs and a deep breath
His lifetime masterpiece awaits …
Silver lit hair black as night
Her Indigo eyes abrim with love
Soft white skin transparent
A white spotted dress of cornflower blue
silk trimmed waist
Forever imprinted in Memory
A testament to their Love
Raising his hand wrinkled through time
the curve of her breast takes shape
her form follows next …
Pausing for thought ,
he remembers a day etched fast in his mind
Around her head ,
Mists of water rainbow hues
Behind her a waterfall of crystal blue
Shadow and shape suggest beings
The faeries she hoarded
Dancing like angels around her head
These he added as she would be pleased …
His hand starts to shake
effort and time taking its toll
mad with mother time
robbing him of his one great gift
this would be his last …
Pouring 50 years of marriage
His heart and soul
Smeared , brushed , and smudged
Light and dark no dis chord
Finished he is complete
His one great masterpiece
His wife his love …
Packing away his palette
an artisan to his gift
closing the lid on colour
washing his brushes
and cleaning knives
Weathered hands tremble
Reaching for a glass
The bottle , a sherry he saved ,
from a golden anniversary
their last …
Taking a sip he closes his eyes
waiting for memory to carry him back
To a time beloved …