#artista

16 posts
  • artistano1 7w

    ...



    I'm still dying, Diane
    I dive,
    into depths of nonsense.
    I'm still lying, Diane,
    waiting for something to happen to me.

    That quiet and inaudible dream,
    or some verse,
    in my dead head,
    or the sound of the wind
    -or a scream.
    Above the tired roof, up,
    another dawn descends on the town
    where i was born,
    where i was die,
    and the night lightly dresses like a whore
    and sneaks out of the room,
    satisfied with her prey.
    I don't even have the strength to turn around.
    She will definitely take her's tip.
    The clock is ticking loud
    and that sound
    swallows everything.

    I'm still dying, Diane
    I dive,
    into depths of nonsense.
    I'm still lying, Diane,
    waiting for something to happen to me.

    I will play for a long time
    this role assigned to me,
    in this defeat
    that will save me.
    I'm Godot, don't wait for me.
    In the city of sold souls,
    in the city of bold passion,
    This town will dawn,
    a graveyard of dead ideas,
    of dead faces
    with the eternal names of dead ends.
    While goes out,
    the last cry of a restless soul,
    I run to sleep to the end of the planet Earth,
    once and for all,
    and let the verses keep you awake...

    I'm still dying, Diane
    I dive,
    into depths of nonsense.
    I'm still lying, Diane,
    waiting for something to happen to me.





    #artistano1 #artista #wod #start #refrain
    @miraquill @writersnetwork

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    Refrain

  • artistano1 9w

    She looked a little sad
    in that dress.
    In that dying summer.
    It's like she loves me
    for the last time.
    Art died in the paintings
    in which she fastens her bra.
    My skeleton is rotten.
    Collor. Column. Corona.
    Under infrared rays,
    the Moon is plump,
    airy and accurate
    in its appearance at celestial parties.


    We have started
    to unknowning each other.
    But flashes and dreams come by habit.
    We have joy and fun
    in that past life.
    The cobweb grabbed the door
    which was closed in one direction.
    After she left,
    my palms plowed more
    than when I started my circle.
    Circles. Plows. Pillows.
    Under infrared rays,
    the night is dark,
    and poetry stalks me
    on this celestial party.


    Just me and the mirror.
    Show must go on.
    I'm just an artist in circus.
    What's wrong with circuses?
    - At least I can walk on the wire
    and stumble ... and fall ... and...
    It'll be part of my show,
    the kids will laugh.
    Everyone laughs in the circus.
    - I'm crying.
    Circus. Citrus. Cycles.
    Under infrared rays,
    this town is empty place,
    and stray dogs bark
    to their celestial bones.


    The motive is the same
    for kill and locking the door since you left.
    Five years later
    there was a parade
    of charged gay particles in the city.
    I paraded among the bookshelves.
    The letters shone under the lamp,
    words fell from the sky,
    sky created us,
    we created books,
    books created shelves.
    And the circle closes there.
    Round. Scream. Click.
    Under infrared rays,
    your face haunting me in the mirror,
    and our roles dancing
    on this celestial show.


    But I still laugh.
    It was Sunday.
    I was at the cemetery.
    And it wasn't black as I imagined.
    I was happy to feel sad.
    I fastens her bra in letters on the paper.
    I was standing on the moon
    trying to touch the sky...
    - Don't let someone...
    - Don't let anyone.
    Artist. Atheist. Arthritis.
    Under infrared rays,
    the moon is plump,
    we are just a stain of wine,
    in this celestial life
    but i'm yours and you are mine.






    by
    Artistano1
    #genuine_readers
    @miraquill
    @writersnetwork
    #artista

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    Infrared rays

  • artistano1 9w

    One,
    then the other,
    then more and more
    piece by piece,
    I leave myself in the ghost town.
    And I'm going down,
    old,
    like in the ashes a log
    And so cold...

    Piece of me
    is still out there,
    somewhere in a bunch
    of crumpled smiles.
    There,
    where the morning
    dresses in purple the roofs.
    There,
    where are no more amateurs
    with rented costumes
    and cheap roles.
    There,
    where I stopped dreaming
    about spoiled doll's.
    And I'm lying down
    old,
    like in the ashes a log
    And so cold...

    One piece of me
    is still somewhere
    confused by your growing obligations.
    Where the world fell asleep before us,
    and where, at least for an hour,
    we had our first dream.
    And one piece
    stayed there
    where my songs made sense,
    and my dead hands wrote
    black letters on your white body.
    And now I'm leaving town
    old,
    like in the ashes a log
    And so cold...

    Piece by piece, by piece,
    I leave to your memories.
    All I have to do is see you tomorrow,
    and move your mind, the way I know.
    And all I have to do is bite your lip
    for some new year
    while burning balloons fly over us
    in Paris, or anywhere
    And all I have to do is dying in the fog
    old,
    like in the ashes a log
    And so cold...






    Written by artistano1


    #genuine_readers
    #daadigotyourback
    #poetry
    @miraquill
    @writersnetwork
    #piece #artista #end #wod

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    Piece by piece

  • artistano1 12w

    Come in October,
    when it rains out of nowhere.
    Or come anytime.
    In front of a piece of art,
    I think about your shoulders,
    I think of the country
    in which life begins.
    A hidden secret,
    broken by waves of memory.
    Like the grayness of a cloud,
    Like a day without light,
    Like an October morning,
    Like you and I
    Like white night stars.


    October rain,
    maybe winter is coming.
    Maybe you will come.
    Questions fall from the sky.
    Where are you? Who has you?
    Boredom suffocates crumpled paper,
    as I fade in your pictures.
    Good actors feel other's pain,
    and bad not even his own.
    Like the last drop in a glass
    Like drunkenness
    Like October wet
    Like you and I,
    Like a fish in a net.


    October rain,
    in a train of dead poets.
    I need a dream two thousand years old,
    I need a childhood without fears.
    Like a finished book,
    I close my eyes.
    Maybe I love you to madness,
    maybe I'm just trying to fall asleep.
    Come in October
    Like the last dance
    Like walking on water
    Like a midnight's kiss
    Like you and I
    Like a citizen without a city.


    October rain,
    endless gray light,
    what I eat becomes me.
    And i feel ink,
    I'm leaking down your neck.
    Leaving a trail, small sign,
    which does not fade with time,
    a sign by which you remember me
    while you forget me.
    Like a thrown voodoo doll
    Like waiting for October
    Like love at first sight
    Like you and I
    Like when blind man cry


    Distance, smoke and dust.
    October,
    Smell of lust
    Infinite gray light.
    I hate this city.
    Now, really,
    come in October,
    or come anytime...





    ArtistaNo1
    @miraquill @writersnetwork
    #genuinereaders #daadigotyourback
    #october #love #artista #poetry

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    Come in October

  • artistano1 15w

    One,
    then the other,
    then more and more
    piece by piece,
    I leave myself in the ghost town.
    And I'm going down,
    cold, like in the ashes a log.

    Piece of me
    is still out there,
    somewhere in a bunch
    of crumpled smiles.
    There,
    where the morning dresses in purple the roofs.
    There,
    where are no more amateurs
    with rented costumes
    and cheap roles.
    There,
    where I stopped dreaming
    about spoiled doll's.
    And I'm lying
    cold, like in the ashes a log.

    One piece of me
    is still confused somewhere
    by your growing up and obligations.
    Where the world fell asleep before us,
    and where, at least for an hour,
    we had our first dream together.
    And one piece
    stayed where my songs made sense,
    and my dead hands wrote
    black letters on your white body.
    And now I'm lying
    cold, like in the ashes a log.

    Piece by piece, by piece,
    I leave to your memories
    All I have to do is see you tomorrow,
    and move your mind, the way I know.
    And all I have to do is bite your lip
    for some new year
    while burning balloons fly over us.
    And all I have to do is leave
    piece by piece in the fog
    and i'm lying
    cold, like in the ashes a log.




    P.S. Today is my birthday :)



    Written by artistano1

    #genuine_readers #daadigotyourback #poetry @miraquill @writersnetwork #piece #artista

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    Piece by piece

  • artistano1 15w

    ...

    Tonight,
    when my last verses
    smell like gray fairy tales
    under your window,
    don't wake up in vain.
    I know you won't be happy
    in this world of money
    faked smiles and pain.
    Where heads fall and history fades.
    At least try not to be prey
    in all this,
    be a hunter.
    I've certainly been crazy for a long time.
    My loneliness is a ship
    sailing into the abyss.
    In me is the wind
    ran away from the moon
    and the barks of stray dogs.
    There are letters in me,
    that instead of a heart,
    in something stab the dart.

    Tonight,
    when my last words
    ring in your ears,
    like empty stories,
    don't wake up in vain.
    There is no us anymore,
    it's a pattern.
    All that's left is the same smile,
    like one scar on two faces.
    You and me-
    like a wind and the plain.
    The night is in me,
    like a whisper in the grave,
    out of me comes
    the banging of nonsense,
    that instead of a heart,
    somehow sense impart.

    You still keep a secret,
    and hide the gleam in your eyes,
    when you meet me again
    in the antique shop
    of all those years I gave you,
    and which you gave me.
    Maybe those distances will eat us,
    we may become eternal.
    Shine tonight, like a meteor rain,
    that instead of a heart,
    something falling apart.

    Tonight,
    when my lies hit your memories loudly,
    like a lighting strike,
    don't wake up in vain.
    I haven't had songs
    to buy you again,
    Only my conscience
    is still playing in me,
    like when the army marches,
    that instead of a heart,
    remains a piece of art.

    Tonight,
    when you see me
    in those shadows on the wall,
    don't wake up in vain,
    you will bring back memories,
    you will bring chaos in your head.
    you will bring back everything you forgot.
    Like a civil war on the street,
    instead of my heart,
    something's beat.




    by artistano1
    #genuine_readers @miraquill @writersnetwork #writersbay #miraquill #writersnetwork #tonight #artista

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    Tonight

  • artistano1 57w

    ...


    It shone and trembled,
    then disappeared,
    life in one moment,
    as if to remind me that I am alive;
    tooth print on hand,
    nail scar on the chest,
    eyes like the glow of a stars.
    And we are all good,
    it just depends on how and to whom,
    my beautiful dream and worst nightmare,
    and a damn easy to remember name;
    Taurus, Alabaster, Sapphire and Lucy.

    I don't know how to keep the peace,
    in the whirlwind of unrest
    that watches over me,
    and takes days as if they were endless.
    Reflection in the mirror,
    sigh in the coffin
    and whisper in the wind,
    each can be the last.
    And we are all good,
    it just depends on how and to whom,
    and I still strain my tired eyes,
    but its just more of you in front of them;
    Taurus, Alabaster, Sapphire and Lucy.

    Are you still dream that dream,
    sleeping beauty?
    No one has ever called you like this,
    and no one ever arrived first.
    And there, where I put the stamp,
    and where words screamed
    from the depths of the soul,
    now water is dripping, and I tremble in sadness.
    And we are all good,
    it just depends on how and to whom.
    Tired feet in a dusty path,
    and a dead end at the end of a dream,
    and my palm still smells of you;
    Taurus, Alabaster, Sapphire and Lucy.

    Spent thoughts, I throw on paper,
    and through the eyelids
    i look into the day.
    The far vault gapes listlessly,
    and dark and dull gape above me,
    as if he would swallow me at any moment;
    Birthmark on the neck,
    lip bite,
    and fingerprint on the wall.
    I sold my soul and became
    a passenger passing by,
    in a fever, on the road,
    and runaway from you,
    damn easy to remember name,
    and we could have done better;
    Taurus, Alabaster, Sapphire and Lucy.






    Repost "Lucy" by artistano1
    #Lucy @writersnetwork @mirakeeworld @readwriteunite @mirakee_love #daadigotyourback #genuine_readers #writersbay #artista #sadness @mirakee

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    .

  • pacificpious 61w

    कलम ✒️

    कला-ए-कलम कमाल है !
    कल अबे और आज वही,
    साले कर रहे सलाम है !!

    ✍️ ©pacificpious

  • artistano1 63w

    @writersnetwork @mirakee @readwriteunite #poetry #genuine_readers #writersbay #daadigotyourback @mirakeeworld #etch #June #artista




    At the end,
    You'll wake up one morning.
    Alone.
    Wrinkled hands, old.
    And June will be all around you,
    in the mirror,
    in the eyes,
    in gray hair,
    on the window,
    below which
    the world more and more
    flee for nothing.
    A world that more
    it is not what it is
    once was.
    When I loved you
    in all languages in
    the world.
    With eyes that
    they shine with desire
    and hopes for a better tomorrow,
    for a world in which
    are serenades
    sang under the windows,
    and kissed the hands of the ladies.
    And so as you stand,
    in the room,
    in front of the window,
    in June,
    you will want to fly out
    down a long artisan street,
    to one dilapidated house
    in the ghetto,
    and change everything,
    with all the strength of your heart,
    which you don't even hear anymore
    to knock.
    To bring back all the hours,
    and a face that becomes a silhouette.
    But in vain,
    you don't even know what you want anymore,
    nor what you once wanted.
    Well, it's not even that June,
    and those dilapidated ghetto house,
    no more ...
    And only in the old one
    jewelry box,
    there is a picture,
    smiling character,
    etched in memory
    etched in June
    while the world was
    nicer place.
    And as your heart slowly stops,
    it could last an eternity
    live in memories,
    and you don't hear anymore
    last beats,
    and you don't know
    that you dream awake ...

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    „Etched in June"

    ©artistano1

  • shiivz 82w

    Know me

    You will never know meh because you never loved meh
    ©RiSh

  • rockraulmejia 121w

    El Artista (Pt. 2, La alianza)

    El silencio me estremeció, pregunté al oficial que resguardaba la celda si me podían dar un poco de agua pero él simplemente me lanzo una mirada desagradable y entredientes dijo algo con tono de desprecio.

    Segundos más tarde Devon comenzó a hablar solo, casi no se escuchaba lo que decía por lo que que puse toda mi atención sobre él y me di cuenta de que estaba teniendo una conversación consigo mismo sobre el asesinato de su mujer, lo que escuche fue lo siguiente:

    -La matamos
    -No, tú la mastaste
    -¿Me vas a dejar solo en esto? Fue tu plan
    -Eres un asesino de mierda, Devon
    -No, yo no fui, voy a decir la verdad
    -¡No seas tonto! Nos vamos a quedar aquí...

    En ese momento el otro hombre dentro de la habitación llamado Tracy tomó a Devon por el cuello, lo levantó al rededor de veinte centímetros del suelo y lo lanzó contra la pared con mucha facilidad, apuntó hacia él con el dedo y con una voz rasposa y muy grave le dijo "Ya callate, maldito drogadicto de mierda me tienes harto hijo de perra" después golpeo la pared y lanzó un grito de enojo para luego volverse a sentar, Devon se quedó justo donde cayó, abrazo sus rodillas y comenzó a mecerse desesperadamente y en silencio.

    Yo estaba tan preocupado por mi situacion que no tenía cabeza para pensar en la agresividad de uno o la esquizofrenia del otro.


    Pasamos toda la noche en la celda, eran aproximadamente las cuatro de la mañana y Tracy se quedó dormido en su lugar, yo estaba muy pensativo y sin nada de sueño, de pronto Devon se lanzó sobre el intimidante hombre negro y con una navaja que sabrá Dios de dónde sacó intentó apuñarlo, rápidamente me puse de pie, tomé a Devon por los hombros y como era muy flaco y escualido lo lancé al suelo, me dijo "Viejo idiota no te metas, esto es entre el simio y yo" mientras me veía con ojos de loco y amenanzandome con el cuchillo, en todos mis años de vida he tenido muchas experiencias y alguna vez trate con drogadictos, hablé con él y le prometí que si me escuchaba le iba a conseguir un poco de heroína, me tomó por ambos hombros y con alegría enfermiza me dijo "Viejo, ¿hablas en serio? Eso sería estupendo", Todo ese tiempo mantuve a Tracy distante con mi mano en su pecho, lo cual me pareció raro pues fácilmente pudo quitarme de su camino pero no lo hizo.

    Continúe hablando con Devon y le dije que estábamos juntos en esto, que al amanecer seríamos juzgados y ninguno vería la luz de nuevo, me dirigí a los dos y les dije que teníamos que escapar, que podíamos llegar a ser un gran equipo, me di cuenta de que ambos eran muy fáciles de manipular y que en mis manos estaba un loco drogadicto sin límites y un agresivo y muy poderoso hombre que me tenía respeto, la pregunta era la siguiente... ¿Que podía hacer yo con todo esto?
    ©rockraulmejia

  • rockraulmejia 128w

    El artista (Pt. 1. La sentencia)

    La policía no paraba de interrogarme, tenía dos reflectores apuntando sobre mí, hacía tanto calor que me sentía sofocado; uno de los oficiales se acercó a mí y me miró fijamente a los ojos, golpeó la mesa dos veces y con un tono de voz muy alto y nada cortés dijo:

    ―¿Sabes por qué estás aquí, maldito viejo asesino? ¿Qué hiciste con los cadáveres? ¿Dónde están las putas pinturas?

    ―Discúlpeme pero quisiera saber de qué me está usted hablando, yo sólo soy un viejo jubilado, ni siquiera me puedo valer por mí mismo, vivo en la quinta avenida de Silverstein con mis dos perros y le tengo que pedir a mis hijos que me lleven al pueblo a comprar mis cosas porque no puedo ir yo solo. ¿Usted cree que puedo asesinar a alguien? Los fines de semana me visitan mis nietos, yo no soy un asesino y con lágrimas en los ojos le digo que no sé nada de lo que me están preguntando― le dije.

    Después de un largo interrogatorio me metieron a una celda con dos delincuentes; un hombre negro, musculoso, lleno de tatuajes, alto, como de un metro con noventa de altura ,que había violado a quince mujeres en las calles del pueblo; y un sujeto blanco, flaco, pálido y ojeroso, adicto a la heroína que mató a su esposa golpeándola en la cabeza con un martillo infinidad de veces.

    Ahí estábamos los tres en completo silencio, sentados sobre el mismo pedazo de madera que gracias a dos cadenas colgaba de la pared simulando una banca.

    Mi situación es complicada, por lo que entendí habrá un juicio mañana por la mañana donde decidirán si mi sentencia es 87 años o cadena perpetua... ¡Maldita sea! Mi alma se pudrirá en prisión por mucho tiempo, la verdad es que ya perdí la cuenta de los cargos que hay en mi contra pero los de mayor peso son cinco asesinatos y la venta de unas pinturas bastante peculiares.
    ©rockraulmejia

  • rockraulmejia 128w

    A veces le tengo miedo a la verdad

    La verdad es tan relativa como una buena canción,
    Cómo el buen gusto o las decisiones correctas.

    La verdad es algo que puede acabar con el imperio más solido en un instante, es el némesis de los secretos y la mejor aliada de los que buscan perdón.

    Pensamos que la verdad es dura, que nos lastima y qué a veces es mejor no saberla pero ¿Qué pasa cuando es la única que puede salvar al mundo de lo que estás apunto de hacer? Estás a punto de dejar a muchos lectores sin una gran novela o quizá a muchos deprimidos sin una charla motivacional, a un público sin su actor principal, tal vez a una persona sin un tatuaje, a un monton de agitados espectadores con el corazón en la mano llenos de euforia y pasión sin ese gran cantante, a una pared gris sin su mural lleno de colores.

    Dime ¿Quién te crees tú para hacer eso? Por qué le niegas al mundo lo que solo tú puedes darle

    Hoy me di cuenta de que la verdad no siempre es mala y que no tiene un comportamiento tan estable como pensamos.

    Si la logras apreciar desde otro ángulo notarás que a veces ella se oculta entre nuestro miedos e inseguridades.

    Ahora yo te pregunto a ti

    ¿Qué pasaría si la verdad es que eres un ser muy talentoso, mágico y apasionado?

    Pero esa verdad está muy oculta a tus ojos ¿No te gustaría que alguien te lo dijera?

    Al principio dije que la verdad es algo muy relativo y esto quiere decir que depende del observador ¿Y si te observas con otros ojos? ¿Con ojos de amor? Si logras enamorarte de ti mismo y ver tus virtudes sobre tus defectos seguro serás muy grande.
    ©rockraulmejia

  • devonstranger 199w

    ©devonstranger

  • devonstranger 239w

    #wordoftheday

  • devonstranger 241w

    #wordoftheday