Painted Poems by Julie Julie

Painted Poems by Julie Julie Now living in Orba Spain, I paint and write poetry

14/06/2026

Man of Convenient Sorrows

I was his friend, until I chose distance.

I stayed on the edge of things,
close enough to see the pattern,
far enough not to become part of it.

He moves through people like a routine,
not a relationship.

He takes them to the same places,
offers the same scenery,
the same softened backstory,
as if life repeats cleanly
when he decides it should.

Older women, younger women,
different lives, same outcome.
All of them sharp enough in their own way
to recognize the script,
but still met with it as if it were new.

Soft stories. Carefully shaped need.
A quiet performance of being wronged by life.

He is always the one who has been hurt.
Always the one who deserves care.
Always temporarily fragile enough
that someone else should step in.

And someone usually does.
A place to stay.
A door opened.
Comfort offered.
Until it becomes clear what is being taken
was never meant to be returned.

There is no real connection in it.
Only access.

When that access closes,
he moves on as if nothing happened,
already telling the next version of the same story.

I chose distance not from anger,
but from repetition and recognition.

Some patterns do not need your participation
to prove exactly  who and what they are.

The sky is still blue.The tiles still glow in the sun.The old men still gather in the square.Nothing has changed.Except ...
14/06/2026

The sky is still blue.
The tiles still glow in the sun.
The old men still gather in the square.

Nothing has changed.

Except now I notice
the swallows stitching the sky,
Fresh coffee on warm air
the sound of cups meeting saucers
at a morning café.

And I’ve learned that places are only half the story.

The right street helps.
The right view helps.
But the right people
change everything.

Spain was never hiding.
I was.

(Note: I did not paint this. It is my inspiration painting of the day)

A Corner of SpainWhite villages rest beneath a painted sky,where olive trees whisper and wildflowers lie.A winding path ...
13/06/2026

A Corner of Spain

White villages rest beneath a painted sky,
where olive trees whisper and wildflowers lie.
A winding path drifts through sunlit terrain,
holding the quiet heart of Spain.

✨ CUSTOM SKETCHBOOK CHARACTER PORTRAITS ✨I’ve started creating fun, illustrated “character sketchbook” portraits for fri...
28/05/2026

✨ CUSTOM SKETCHBOOK CHARACTER PORTRAITS ✨

I’ve started creating fun, illustrated “character sketchbook” portraits for friends and family and I’m now opening a few spaces for custom orders! 💖

These are completely personalised digital artwork pages inspired by YOU or someone you love.
🎨 Full body drawings
🎨 Cute cartoon versions
🎨 Fashion & outfit sketches
🎨 Funny sayings & inside jokes
🎨 Hobbies, pets, sports & favourite things
🎨 Friendship/family themes
🎨 Photos included in the design

Perfect for:
💝 Birthdays
💝 Best friends
💝 Couples
💝 Parents & kids
💝 Memorial keepsakes
💝 Girls trips
💝 Family gifts
💝 “Daddy’s Girl” / “Mama Bear” style themes
💝 Fun social media profile art

TO ORDER:
Please send me:
📸 1-3 clear photos (individual or group shots)
📝 Names/nicknames of the people
❤️ Your relationship to them
🎵 Hobbies, sports, pets, favourite drinks, sayings, colours or meaningful things you’d like included
😂 Any funny quotes, personality traits or inside jokes

I’ll turn it all into a unique illustrated collage full of personality and memories ✨

Message me directly for prices, examples and booking 💌

Please share with friends & family if you think they’d love one! 🩷

Painted poems by Julie Julie

11/01/2026

I am no longer a victim.
No longer the fly on the wall,
quiet wings folded,
letting my worth be decided
by voices louder than my own.

I am done allowing others
to rewrite my story,
to blame me for actions
I never took,
to hand me guilt
that was never mine to carry.

I once believed kindness meant silence,
that being nice was the cost of belonging,
that fitting in required shrinking
until I disappeared politely.

But I have learned.
Three years in this fu***ng village
taught me what comfort never did.

It taught me how to stand.
How to speak when truth rises in my chest.
How to walk away from people
who judge without asking,
who form conclusions
before they ever hear my voice.

If I am not the person you want me to be,
find someone new.
I will not change myself
to fit the shape of your expectations,
especially not for someone
who never bothered to ask my opinion
before passing their verdict.

I am no longer tolerant of erasure.
No longer patient with disbelief.
I choose distance over damage,
my voice over approval,
my self-respect over your comfort.

I am here.
I speak.
I stand.
And that is enough.

15/12/2025

You did not leave love behind
when Gary left this world.
Love stayed.
It just learned new rooms.

In the beginning, grief was a house
with no windows,
air thick with the shock of absence,
every sound an echo of what should have been.

They said time would carry you forward,
as if love were a thing to outgrow,
as if devotion could loosen its grip.
But you learned something truer.

You do not move on; You move in.

You move into mornings
where his name still rises with the sun.
Into quiet conversations with memory,
spoken softly so the world does not shatter.

You move with Bo beside you,
four paws reminding you
that life still asks to be walked,
that loyalty survives loss.

Now the light is different.
Spain opens its skies above you,
wide and unafraid of sorrow.
The streets do not know your history,
but they hold you anyway.

This life is not a replacement.
It is an expansion.
A life large enough to carry love forward,
to speak Gs name without breaking,
to keep walking forward
under a changed sky.

You did not move on.
You learned how to live
with love still present,
grief reshaped,
a heart that remains faithful to what was,
yet open to the quiet hope
that one day love may find space again.

05/12/2025

The cold settles over the village,
quiet on the roofs and stone,
yet something in me has begun to warm.
I step into the sharp morning air
and feel my mind waking again,
colours returning, words gathering,
the urge to paint and write rising softly.

I leave behind the small murmurs of the town
and walk toward open faces,
people who welcome me without judgment
and share their laughter freely.

On the coast the air feels new,
salt and music drifting into the night.
Rock and roll bars glow,
and good friends sit close,
their presence a gentle place to rest.

With them I remember who I am.
With them I feel alive again,
as the sea and the songs
carry me back to myself.

29/08/2025

Orba has tested me.
Its winds cut through my chest,
its silence weighs heavy
when I try to write my truths.

Each morning I rise
though my knees tremble,
though my heart aches
for family far away.
I lift the pen,
I lift the brush,
even when both feel
too heavy to hold.

Friends drift like shadows,
near then gone,
forward then back.
I do not always know
if I am walking beside them
or left behind.

Still, I sit before the canvas.
Still, I open my journal.
Still, I press color onto paper.
Still, I scratch words into lines.
It is not easy.
The paint resists.
The thoughts stumble.
The voice trembles.
Yet I keep trying.

Survival is not loud.
It is quiet persistence.
A single brushstroke.
A single sentence.
A single smile shared
when the heart feels empty.

Maybe that is enough.
To keep reaching.
To keep creating.
To keep breathing
against the wind.

23/07/2025

Let them talk.
Let them whisper from rooms
they’ve never cleaned.
Let them point fingers
to distract from their own mess.

Let them judge
if tearing you down
makes them feel taller.
Let them laugh at your cracks
while hiding their own.

Let them call you names
you’ve outgrown.
Let them rewrite your story
to avoid reading theirs.

Let them.
Those who build
don’t destroy.
Those who see your truth
don’t need you perfect.

So rise anyway.
Shine anyway.
Live anyway.
And let them.

This week has been a strange one.I haven’t felt the pull to write or paint.The words stayed quiet.The colors never came....
10/07/2025

This week has been a strange one.
I haven’t felt the pull to write or paint.
The words stayed quiet.
The colors never came.
Even stillness felt like too much.
But somewhere beneath it all,
something soft began to shift

This week…
I learned that not all poems arrive on time.
Some hide in the corners of hard days,
tucked between deep breaths
and moments when I almost gave up.

I am learning to let go of what stings.
To pause when I feel triggered,
to step back when the story in my mind
starts spinning a little too fast.

People are not always who they pretend to be.
But I don’t need to solve that mystery.
I only need to stay close to my own truth,
close to the place inside me
where the real poems live.

I am the one who stands for myself now.
Not by shouting,
but by knowing when to walk away,
when to breathe,
when to keep creating
even if no one claps.

I’m learning that wanting things to be fair
will often leave me tired.
Life doesn’t always rhyme.
But growth still finds its way
into the broken lines.

The difficult parts
are where the meaning lives.
And every time I stay present through the mess,
another verse unfolds.

So maybe this week
was not for painting or poetry on paper.
Maybe it was for the kind of poem
that rewrites me instead.

Dirección

Calle Pintor Ruano Llopis 12
Orba
03790

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