Kewayne Wadley

Gold Star - 24,244 Points (1987- / Groton, Connecticutt)

Without Pop, Said Art - Poem by Kewayne Wadley

Each night that we met, was art plastered against the wall.
Her hair sculpted the horizon of sorts.
A reaction of color blended into the back drop.
Our breath reacted to the masterpiece of two souls
Longing to be one.
This is how we came to met.
The view of how one woman becomes every other thought.
A canvas laid bare as our eyes came together as one.
Her name gave an upbeat sense of enjoyment.
The vowels seemed to kiss my tongue upon saying it.
I listened to her voice mold useless words into meaningful phrases.
I could care less about the clouds that looked like skyscrapers,
Unless pointed out by her.
A revolutionary of small proportionary things made known by
thin lips.
The sky dipped in the brief emotion of how I felt each second she was away.
Normally, the sky remained blue. As I knew she was soon to leave.
She'd speak on the thoughts that radiate into nothingness.
A calm sense that rolled off her tongue as her eyes would bat 12,000
shades of perfection.
There wasn't a such thing as cloud nine in her presence or a need of counting the steps to seventh heaven.
We simply were, who we were.
A wine tasting of various colors.
With a hint of red blush to our cheeks.
The effect of therapeutic release, having her near.
The pages of 'How To' books seemed to fly by staring in her eyes.
I could care less about the oblong clouds that shared each others caress.
Sailing through the sky.
Unless mentioned by the warmth of her lips.
She'd normally respond back in sarcasm.
Quick brush strokes drawn through the faces hidden behind the protective glass
of frames hung on the wall in art galleries.
Our own touch of symbolism of what others considered perfection.
'The Scream' Edward Munch
'American Gothic' Grant Wood
We'd sit back and laugh.
Revealing the thoughts that screamed each moment while she was away.
The mixed up crazy way you suddenly start to see the world.
Alone, Realizing the true meaning of terror. Although in reality
The thought that we were too lively to be painted as dull as the old couple
Standing in front of an house. Pitchfork with bland looks on both our faces.
We were too lively for that.
A loud splatter of green with large blots of orange.
We expanded on the idea of  'Pointillism'
A calm sense of the moments that passed, ultimately painting the bigger picture.
My fingers splicing her thick brown hair.
Deaf to anything that existed outside of her.
Was I honestly that perfect in her eyes.
Parallel to the abstract lines that made us perfect in each others eyes.
Did we both cancel each other out.
Taking note to the size of the canvas.
Singling out the perfect size brush to continue our painting.
Splashing blobs of paint, a constant spreading of the brush.
Evening it out against the rough canvas.
A slow explosion, exploring physical touch.
Exploring conception of thought.
Exploring contrast of color.
This was her
This was me
This was us painting an canvas without paint
but merely with ourselves

Topic(s) of this poem: art, artistic work, love and art, relationships

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Poem Submitted: Monday, November 23, 2015

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