Long Airbrushed Poems
Long Airbrushed Poems. Below are the most popular long Airbrushed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Airbrushed poems by poem length and keyword.
Airbrushed and abused
There are those who make me question myself,
the picture presented, is it really that blurred
Details on the edges of watercolor dreamscapes
melt into reality out of focus and lost of depth
Airbrushed and abused beyond clarity,
to where what I see I no longer recognize
Am I really invisible or just faded from too much light
Can a dim image still shine even when darkness wields its brush
For what have I become, nothing more than an echo
slowly becoming silent as it passes by ears of little concern,
an annoying endless rhythm of distant lyrics
no longer carrying a meaning that applies,
forgotten in the chastised abyss of another’s words,
accusations in permanent ink, shredded verses
tossed to the side to disappear…
I want a lived-in face—
a body that curves and stretches,
each line a crease carved by laughter,
grief, survival.
I love life etched into skin.
We are the narrators of our days,
our bodies the pages,
our faces the margins,
annotated by time.
We are art—
life’s sculptures—
one arm or two,
too thin, too wide.
What old lies we’ve swallowed
about beauty’s mould.
Perfection?
That polished cage—
stitched with labels.
I wore the names—
Chanel, Louis Vuitton—
as if they could spell beauty
on a tag around my wrist.
I spent myself chasing flawless,
burning joy like cash,
saving nothing for self-love.
I was lost chasing the dream—
of thigh gaps sold as grace,
quiet hunger wrapped in silk,
airbrushed lies reflected back
in mirror-glass approval.
And in all that gloss,
I missed the glow
of my own skin,
weathered, soft,
and holy in its truth.
They told me I was richest when untouched,
when time hadn’t left its mark—
but youth is cheap.
Real beauty accrues.
Each scar, each stretch,
a kind of interest paid in grace.
I long for truth.
Gray hair, wrinkled hands,
a tooth gone missing like a childhood friend.
My curves have curves,
but my heart is open,
always has been.
My mouth will sing
even if a note is off.
Even if pieces are missing—
it matters not.
Confidence? Still a struggle.
But intelligence…
oh, that disarms me every time.
A woman or man who can think—
who listens with their eyes,
and speaks with care—
now that’s divine.
Beauty or the beast—
it matters not at all.
Each one a masterpiece,
every rise and fall.
Aspirations are a self revealing Impress,
peeping in gem facet placeholder-
of ruby glimpses
of
Fairy tale covers,
covertly-airbrushed by the atmosphere,
over genuine zirconium expectations.
In inner light magistrate cache cow-
in the crystal stereo
of the now and here,
flashes impetus clear like a streaker revealing
to illustrate, the daring, self inspiration of its baud rate
of liberation-ad-here.
Geniing the busy body of it's own needful premise
of seedful impetuous implication, promised on premises.
A banner at happy hour suggesting intoxicating ingestion.
Drunk with in-advertising
getting premonition of-promotion, imbibing
the "jasmine in your mind."
Relation-ships moon causes the roiling sea
to gem carats of her sparkling sirens.
Alluring rocks to dash you to pieces
in drawn compliance..
Unsown light can give you the creatures of her disease,
calling bluff to serve her touring manifestations.
With marked cards to lay down in flush that had lay dormant but surfaced up from the sleeve
and from the seep of pasts saved ante ups.
They are a whiskey shot at a saloon.
Liquid courage that causes you to bark at the moon.
Tide a naked ride tied to the back of a train,
of bad ideas, after tion, ction and igeon
blows your cover, like sudden electrical storm
over the rainbow over landover and hot air,-
balloons like a mushroom
clouded idead ideal that transports you into the stratosphere of her thundering strutopeels.
Her bubble puts you in her hair brained funny papers, periodically.
To keep you sober, from occupying
a van down by the river. (Which sounds good to me) incidentally, but that's neither here nor there,
immaterial, witness,
these thought bubbles-seductively
siring, serial 'vamped vapor round firing
like a ghost mistress who puts you in a stupor
on the grounds of desiring, her consecrated things.
The hovering mother is never quite out of sight.
She hovers morning, midday, noon, and night
Darting from tree to tree, she’d fervently hide,
Or at the back of a bus, when they took a ride.
Looking for ways, to keep out of view,
Believing she’s diligent, but has nothing better to do,
Her children sigh, whenever she comes near,
For the freedom they seek, she lives...in fear.
"Protection", she says, is her duty to perform,
But instead of good, all she’s doing is harm.
The hovering mother, who learnt a tad late,
That the world exists in and outside her gate.
She learned how to show, as well as to speak,
That it’s easier to hide, and harder to seek,
From airbrushed billboard, to subliminal screen,
Much more lies hidden...than is openly seen.
Cakes and biscuits have ingredients easily bought,
But we grow through lessons, both tried and taught.
Tell her it’s okay, to sometimes take a peripheral view.
Have a much-needed rest, do something creative, or new.
Children need to be heard, and space to grow,
Not a hovering mother who's always in tow.
Joanna Davis
From the crispness of morning to dusk
when all boughs sashay to unfurl,
deepening the fragrance of airbrushed woods…
she will bask in her own pleasure
on a carriage of larkspurs , jays in the shade---
while the breeze fondles her hair
ripening the glow of early May, ablaze.
Oh how she pulses more daring
than winter , not icy-white but pink, pink
like a virginal woman whose fertile seeds
enter my womb: that I drink from her
minty sup, luscious as Taurus’ nectar.
Until spring raises her hands...fluid, raw,
loving; then, to explode into blossomed flight
through the language of time’s renaissance--
a charmed way, basking in her own pleasure,
then to grant me the eloquence of god’s art.
4/27/2018
Spring Contest of Craig Cornish
My heart seeks the smoky quartz sage within you, in secret,
like a solitary star adrift in the whimsical wilderness.
For I remember your voice, that manifested mellifluous musicality,
nurturing vain verses to thrive like lavender-incensed lilies,
glowing with sun-stroked flames of empathetic iridescence,
emanating sealed serenity amidst the archaic darkness,
crawling above raspberry-red roses, waltzing in silence.
Tonight, I cradle crooning clouds, soaked in sleepless sapphires,
as the petrichor breeze serenades your unconditional love,
that quenched my crestfallen quill, releasing cashmere calligraphy.
But if poems could speak, you’d feel the wildflower warmth of words,
how, once upon a camellia crescent, I found my inner rhyme in your sea-foam sonnets,
unveiling a cosmic collage of a sojourner soul,
healing from timeless tokens carved by familiar strangers, celestially aligned, forevermore…
I am the afterglow of a sanguine sunset~
airbrushed with patience by the power of your peridot pigments,
as your tongue is the mindful maestro, and I, the essence of your charismatic choir. …
May I show you the shades of my colorful heart
that are airbrushed in love like a true work of art
May I play you a tune of my favorite song
I'm here to engage you and help you be strong
May I dance you to laughter and bring you a rose
from a fastidious garden, where everything grows
May I pull out the stars from the heavens above
and shake down the moon that is oozing with love
May I dream of tomorrow alongside you my friend
and show you the beauty, that only time mends
May we visit the fairgrounds of life once again
taking carousel rides from our happiness glen
May I show you the shades of my colorful heart,
they are airbrushed in love, a true work of art.
Women in business suits, women in jeans,
Women who like it on top,
Silver-plated women, just another pretty face,
Barefoot women aching for a carnal embrace.
Long legs, lean thighs,
Snappy ass, seductive eyes.
Women in summertime, women in heat,
Women who sleep in the nude,
Animated women who must dance to feel alive,
Waiting on the sofa for Astaire to arrive.
Champagne, full house,
Nipples hard beneath her blouse.
Women in therapy, women in need,
Women who share their complaints,
Complicated women sipping coffee after dark,
Candlestick between them prompts a phallic remark.
Slim waist, firm hips,
Edgy words on naked lips.
Women in Laundromats, women at work,
Women who read to themselves,
Disaffected women disappointed by their men,
Just another wash day, short a quarter again.
Cold rinse, no bleach,
Satisfaction out of reach.
Women in trailer parks, women in debt,
Women who don't shave their legs,
Ham and cheddar women raising children on their own,
No anticipation, simply answer the phone.
Stale bread, small talk,
Sense of humor dry as chalk.
Women in fantasy, women in fact,
Women, young ladies and girls,
Sexy, airbrushed women sure to turn a fella's head,
Way too many women feel like crying instead.
It’s all too easy
To reminisce and languish in memories
Our mind tricks us
Rose coloured filter
Applied to events past
Negatives replaced with positives
Significant details omitted
Facts artfully edited
Festooning flourishes added
The canvas reworked
The narrative nudged
Remembrance airbrushed
Our role as protagonist enhanced
So yesteryear reappears with fondness
Illuminated with a soft romantic glow
Enhancing all things past
Thus we yearn for a return
To an illusion of time long gone
If only we could focus
And expend the same mental energy
Creating a positive present
And a future filled with promise
Stop clinging to the ephemeral “good old days”
Make your today count every day
And invest energy wisely in your tomorrow
Slow motion agonised gravel crunch
Picks and flicks sharp stones under tyres
Glinted handle clicked forward introduces
Arresting view of her beauty polished
Soft and ready, yet bristled. This is her day
Ivory plumes escape cancels rear wheel
momentarily, somebody helps her collect them
Blipping her radiant expression from view for a second
Shaken cascade skirts slip into billowing dominion
Grazing the ground, her trembled fingers clutch a fold
Spring of chestnut curl renegades shine synchronised
Slide on Ivory sleeves, molest floating neck
- I have forgotten to swallow. A tennis ball wedged..
Leaf suffocated branches obscure me from her
Closer, towards the broad staircase, silk magnolia drifts
Accosted by the same scent, where together we spent...
Flourishing bloom steps deliberately, zig zag skirts
knead each tread, she turns her head, concern crosses
eyes which were mine, her alternate man ends me
Nonchalant, reaching the vast entry way, her lips part
Rise of her chest tauts her corseted gown
My brow bends, channels sweat to my eyelids
I don't think she's regretting it
Flushed airbrushed skin itching to begin story book..
Hopeful eyes, encouraged as a fresh deer captured
.... Now's her time to regret it
Rapid splinter branch shrieked pleas briefly snag
Barrel trained on traitor's veil, keyhole fixed
14th