Manual Love, in different Colors (Poems)

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Colors poetry: all the beautiful colors took a long time to show . Her body aches for love, as when her father whispers "I love you babe" she cries. Red, purple.
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I don't wear my envy daintily on my sleeves, I scribble it on my hands and face with a cheap green crayon. Looking at you feels like my heart is microwaving aluminum foil on high. Not because I'm jealous of what you have but because I'm jealous of what we could've been together, had circumstances been different. Carter Ginter Oct The Field. Coral leaflets sway through my attention, singing with the wind's path. Lemon accents separate as sting rays of warmth and light swim toward the earth. Or it may simply evaporate into the embrace of Autumn. Above, black veins creep through the lemon and coral maze, snuggly holding onto their nestlings, ready at any moment to let them fly.

This is only a start to a piece based on a picture prompt. Masha Yurkevich May 9. I'm not your canvas; you can't paint over me. My mistakes, my life, it's whom I want to be. By my every stain I mean my every mistake or misfortune, because I learn from each one of them. I hope it looks somewhat like a paintbrush. I messed around with it, and the result is before your eyes. Somebody's Me May Madison Jan He was an artist I wanted so badly to be his canvas For him to fill my mind With vibrant yellow's, orange's, green's But he filled me with the blues instead.

I want your fingers in my hair wanna feel your breath against my lips I want your hands roaming my body your eyes exploring my soul I want to stay away from everybody every body there is but yours I want the moon to lose our shape can't find our bodies separate I want our auras to lose colors and find one rainbow beaming in the dark I want you dark and in color I want your lips the taste of cigarettes I want your lips the taste of hot chocolate I want you daisies I want you irises But I want you and only you.

Egeria Litha Feb A man on the Spectrum. JT Nelson Jun 2. Blue to gold Gold to red Red darkens Black. Specks of light One by one Filling my View. Low glow east Full moon rise Smiling at Me. I smile back. His Eyes. His eyes were blue. You could stare at them for hours and see a rainbow of colors swirling within. His eyes were mesmerizing; getting lost in them was far too easy. You could see the ocean in his eyes, the way they shine just like the water does as the sun sets.

You want to jump into the sea of his eyes and see the world from his point of view. So you never look into them to begin with. All you see is that his eyes are blue, for if you look any deeper you will drown. Walter W Hoelbling Feb Waves storms honeysuckle rainbow sparkle. Emily Dec I want to say being with you was like coming home, but that seems so over-done.


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Despite the truth it holds. Because being with you was homemade paint. Mason jars lining shelves, oil and pigment and a palette of your own creation. Orange so deep it feels like you are going to fall into it. Not Permanent or Transparent. No, it was like a fire, warm and so, so bright. Like the world around me had gone up in flames and I was happy to burn with it. Or when you laughed, the air lit up like a sunflower.


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Not Hansa or Nickel or Indian yellow. Think something between gold and the shade of a lemon. Honey, sweet and sticky. And my heart twisted and turned inside my chest, adapting to the mix of colors, oil dripping into my veins. Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist, For what other reason is't But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art?

But thy bond slave is my heart. Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

Various authors

The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free. Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die? O Rose Adair! O lovely Rose Adair. Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good fame, Plans, credit, and the Muse - Nothing refuse. Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope. High and more high, It dives into noon, With wings unspent, Untold intent. But it is a god, Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean, It requireth courage stout, Souls above doubt, Valour unbending, Such 'twill reward: They will return More than they were, And ever ascending. Leave all for love: Yet hear me yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavour: Keep thee today, Tomorrow, for ever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved. Cling with life to the maid, But when the surprise First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young, Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem. Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay; Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive, Heartily know, When half-gods go The gods arrive. I am here Inezilda, I am her 'neath your room. All wrapped is Sevilla In mists and in gloom. With my cloak close around me, And more bolder than doom, My guitar and my bright sword Shine out 'neath your room. Do you sleep? With my songs I will sing you awake. If the old man should stumble here, Then my rapier I'll slake. These soft silken nooses To your balcony tie.

Why delay, why be clumsy - Is a rival nearby? All shrouded is Sevilla In mists and in gloom. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

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If seas were infinite, my love would be Yet greater still and more profound; If roads led to eternity Even there it would be found. Stars, sunshine, the night, the day Are images of something better, But words, thoughts, fire, water and clay Can never my true love fetter. Laugh then, and be yourself, but give Me, my dear sweet, one kiss - The gods that on Olympus live Have never known such bliss.

I love you so, I know it's madness, I know it's toil and shameful vanity, I know its vast stupidity, But here at your knees I must confess. It does not suit my looks or years, It's more than time I should be wise, But by all the signs I recognise The pain of love, its sighs and tears.

Without you, I am lost, I yawn, When you are near I'm melancholy, I want to speak, the words are gone, My angel, you are all that's holy! When from the hall I hear the sound Of your soft footstep, or your dress, Or your sweet voice's innocence, My heart crumbles, I am all a mess. If you should smile - it's heaven for me, You turn away - it seems eternity; In days of sadness, the only solace, Is your pale hand, or your sweet face.

Poems about seasons changing by famous poets

When at the sewing frame you sit Diligently bending over it, Your hair and eyelids lowering, Then in amazement I sit wondering, Tenderly, silently, like a child. Should I then tell you of my grief? What use to you would be my talk, My jealous love, my awkwardness, When, on a clouded day, you dress To take a stroll or lengthy walk?

Your tears when all alone you stray, Or sometimes when we talk together, Your journeys out in wind and weather, At the piano when you sit and play, I love it all. Alina dearest, Have pity on me, sweet, I pray, I dare not ask for love, I may not, Perhaps I am not worthy of it, My angel, for my sins forbid it. At least pretend! For your glance so holy Always could wondrously prove love.

Deceive me then, by the heavens above I yearn for it, I die, your look alone will save me. There is a Lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind, I did but see her passing by And yet I love her till I die. Her gesture, motion and her smiles, Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart I know not why, And yet I love her till I die.

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart.

For these may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever. Keep therefore a true woman's eye And love me still but know not why, So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever. Will I still write with you around? Of course. Just now I wrote: "Love is a passive thing. Love cannot be contained. Resort to force, it vanishes, sucked inwards to its source; dodges, watching and wary; or takes wing, soars out of reach. Once I tried arguing with it - and won - then choked on thick remorse.

You've got more sense! In love you seem to glide, find airy pathways no-one else has tried, while both your feet stay firmly on the ground. In love you're flesh and blood and yet your eyes, the movements of your head, tell otherwise. That's why I can - must - write with you around. There was a time when sad was sad, elation was elation: feelings needed neither defending, warding off, nor explanation. Today we know it's all down to the weather. This sunshine's why you feel this way today about a neighbour you've known all this while.

Let's face it, nothing else has changed. The way she does her hair's the same. Her childlike smile, her sometimes haunted look, her mode of dress, her accent, gestures, preference for jazz to pop or classical - all more or less the same. What power the weather has! It changed today. And it could change again, and what you thought was love dissolve in rain. The years speed by Remorselessly, Each bearing a fragment of our past, Like broken glass.

And so do we. One day upon another treads Unceasingly, Like sheep with undistinguishable heads Crowding together One on another. Minute by minute Uncountably, Like raindrops upon the horizon's limit Or waves of the sea, Our short lives pass imperceptibly. Against the advancing, bracing tide Our love shall stand On beaches unfathomably wide Where shell heaps on shell and sand meets sand, With towering cliffs that the elements hide And lines of waves that the waves efface,.

Yet shall our footsteps together trace A path as we travel it hand in hand, That vast immeasurable strand, Planting a kiss upon its face, One for you and yet one for me Defiantly.

Single Red Rose Emoji Meaning

So shall it be. Cupid Bound by Nymphs. Stipple engraving by W. Ryland after Angelica Kauffmann. Love poems Various authors Provided originally for St. Valentine's Day This selection of love poems offered is not by any means comprehensive or all inclusive - for how could it be?