An Empty, Colorless Canvas by Morgan Brown

Absent requisite artistic studio space,
not to mention various and necessary
art supplies, currently unavailable
with which to explore and pursue one’s
lifelong dream, hope and vision to potentially
endeavor among the ever beautiful, flowering,
glorious, promising and often satisfying
fields found in the creative and expressive arts;
due to these being rather unaffordable,
while subsisting on a low fixed income;
which is also something that one
well knows about how they,
having been overly priced out,
are not, by any means,
alone in experiencing,
for that matter, either;
since it has been often said that
“a picture is worth a thousand words”;
save for doing so within one’s imagination;
not to mention within a somewhat
conversely or unconventional fashion;
one is left to draw, paint and sketch
with words alone, in black and white,
on an otherwise bland and empty,
colorless, canvas; however, done in far short
than the sufficient amount of 1000 words;
yet still being hopeful that the point as well as
lingering disappointment, frustration and inner
torment manages to be conveyed all the same.

The Deer by Nathaniel Greene

I am a deer, a very big buck
You see I’m on an adventure
To be the best buck I can be
Running through the forest
Seeing all I can see
Maybe finding other deer to frolic with
Would be nice finding my own herd
Finding my own family to call my own
But for now, I will keep on running through the woods
On to the sunset to be free and happy
To be the best deer I can be
Finding a sense of peace and tranquility
See the day turn to night and the night turn to day
Now I must go drink from a stream and eat leaves from a tree
Hoping one day for that herd of mine
When that day comes we will all be the best deer we can be
The greatest herd roaming through the forest

psych place by Colin Stockwell

there is progress in this slow race
nobody here keeps the same pace
you can tell by the look on their face
but no one wants to be in this place
And they always take away your shoelace
the security is too tight for me to escape
so I’ll just do what I need to until they let me out of the gate

Ah, Paradise by Anthony Parshall

This poem shall be a poem about flowers.
The flowers of doom.
And they tell me I like it,
And yet, studies show,
And I don’t know why, nor do I know how,
But I like to do what I like to do.
Is there more to it than that?
And why is this poem so self-centered anyway?
I’ll write in Czechoslovakian if I know how,
I’ll write however I write.
Is there any end to the trials that one endures
Before one reaches paradise?
Ah, paradise, what a nice idea.

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