While Beauty LivesBeauty fades.
It is but an abstraction of reality
that lasts for a mere moment,
so lets live the ecstasy that is this artistic second in time
before it turns to sand
and fills the desert beneith our feet,
and drowns us in a sea of sensational dirt
whose colours once painted our world
A Perfect Pain You're my pain
But it's not what you would expect
You are perfect
The mere comparison of the two of us makes me question my existence
Your composure is so well put together
Every piece fits together like magic
The way you walk is something special
Your feet hit the floor with a grace that eludes my comprehension
your stride is held up by a confidence that's so..
It's as if the way you hold yourself can hold me up too when I feel as if i can't get to my feet
You are so developed
Not in the sense of body
But the way your soul has matured
Beauty, in all sense of the word is presence in your thoughts,
In your heart;
Sewn into the very fibre of who you are
Woven with the most beautifully coloured threads and laces
I can see the world in your eyes
As if there was nothing to fear
You're as secure as a safe
Your arms could wrap themselves
A guide to understanding artistsPlease read carefully:
Each sketch or doodle is important
So don't say the following:
"It's just a sketch. Can't I have it? You won't miss it!"
Or you will end up with freshly sharpened pencils up your ass
Artist get attached to things they create
Much like mothers and their babies
Remember that It's cruel to separate parents and children until the children are old enough to go out on their own
Until that day
DO NOT ask for art until it has matured and is ready to leave the nest
If you ask an artist to look through their sketchbook one of the three things will happen:
A) you will be given a stone cold glare, indicating how stupid the question really was
B) you will be allowed to peek at select number if sketches the artist seems qualified to be seen
C) you will be stabbed painfully in the eyes with a fork (or whatever else is in hands reach.
NEVER under any circumstance look through the said sketchbook WITHOUT PERMISSION
The Heart Necklace A child sits numbly at a table
the chairs across from him are empty.
Children race about around him
and he watches as their attention dashes through him.
He wears a heart necklace the red of a summer sunrise
and plays with it idly between his fingers. It can be split in two but it stays as one.
Someday, I'll find someone to wear this with me
He whispers, almost as if to console himself.
A teenager sits meekly at a table
the chairs across from him are empty.
Other teens text and chat with their friends
and he watches as one girl smiles at him with honey eyes.
He wears a heart necklace the red of his blushing face
and he plays with it idly between his fingers. It is split in two but both pieces are around his neck.
Someday, she may wear this with me
He whispers, almost lost in his shy giggles.
A man sits proudly at a table
the chair across from him sits a woman with honey eyes.
Anyone else w
The reason why I will not draw youArt is something that is almost indefinable. Essentially, it is something people created to express emotions and intellects. Art is something that goes beyond reality and opens our minds to the ideas of others.
Art is something everyone has been impacted by. Eve
The story of glassSo I saw her.
I saw her broken
and I saw the hollow glaze in her eyes
like the the world had sucked the life out of her.
they were a work of beauty
and they filled my heart with what they didn't posses.
She lay upon the floor as if in pieces
like broken glass.
I walked towards her and the glass she shed cut my feet
but my curiosity grew bold enough not to care about the red foot prints
that trailed my walk.
I slowly picked up her pieces and my hands were raw with cuts
and painted with the red of shimmering blood
but all I could feel was my heart throbbing
all I wanted was to try to piece this girl back together
and so I tried.
I really did.
But some pieces were too far gone
under my feet and beyond the repair I could give.
So I willingly filled those broken pieces with my own
So I could see the cracks in her soul disappear
and I grew weak
so I could see her grow strong.
And she did.
I put her togethe
To Burn a Prayer...To burn a prayer
into a newborn's gentle skin
is but a scar
that the hands of time will carve
And to stitch the word of The Lord
to a young man's heart
Will shed blood in broken thread.
A golden cross may belong around your neck
But it's my necklace of thorns
Twine too tight not to bleed
To be subservient to an ancient book
Is but the slave of an unproductive world
In the eyes of a child who's mind has wings
Of a different colour.
And perhaps a life that is right for you
Is not one a child would grow into.
I'm used to itI would have followed you off the earth just to see a smile
break the stone of an endless frown
But instead I was thrown off the end of the earth for but the crash was never as soft as a fragile smile
Maybe it hurt
But it doesn't matter
I'm used to it after all
For but if something is put into routine, why change it?
I would have given warmth to the snow as it gingerly pranced down from the heavens to touch your cheek
Just to see you dance in winter's blaze.
But instead you let me stumble into an inferno
that scorched my heart black.
It broke me
But why should it matter when
I'm used to it.
For you never knew the break was in the hands of your fault
So I was left without a bandage
I would have knit a sweater of the finest of wool
to keep the shine in your eyes warm and gold
But your craft would stitch a straight jacket from the rawest of straw
And leave me confused
Boys can hurt too...And he sat
In a place no one could find him.
Where the grasp of his peers could not pull him under
And the hot breath of his family couldn't raise the hairs on his neck.
He ripped at his hair with his fingers
As if to pull out the fear
The feeling he got that impaled his heart.
He wondered how his heart could have been poisoned so
When it was sealed behind the cage of his ribs
And locked with a key of reason.
Perhaps, instead of protecting his heart
He imprisoned it.
He let that cage rust alone
So no one could get in
He let the rust encase his hopeful soul
And he let the very will to not get hurt
Guard the prison he obliviously made
And his heart slowly died of neglect
It cracked, and became a broken masterpiece.
The permanent scars that slowly appeared
Was as if an open door to the things he feared
And they crawled inside and replaced everything he once loved
His heart was
You Deserve to SmileDo what you have to do to be happy.
Eat an entire chocolate cake,
Swallow all the pills you need to take -
'Medication' isn't a dirty word.
Wear a princess dress
Or a band t-shirt with
Jeans in distress -
Boy or girl or anything in between,
Stand before that mirror
Take a twirl
And see how beautiful you are.
Go for a run,
Have some fun,
Watch Netflix until your eyes burn,
Curl up in bed -
Take a vacation from your head.
Phone a friend
And talk for hours,
Or stay in your room
And wait for the darkness
To end -
No need to pretend,
Just do what you need.
Paint a picture
Or write a sonnet,
Or just sit still
And breathe -
Pick some flowers,
Just for yourself -
You are just as special
As anyone else.
Can You Hold on One More Day?I read a poem about a boy.
Who had lost all of his pride and joy.
He wore his heart on his sleeves.
Which were stained red,
From all of the blood that he bled.
The boy died...
By the blade of a knife.
That he ran up and down his wrists.
And I couldn't help but cry.
That poem was fake.
There wasn't such a boy.
It wasn't a true story.
But... Then I began to realize.
That just because it wasn't that specific boy.
There are others just like him.
Begging for death.
Slitting their wrists,
And hoping to die.
Because so many times,
And so many times,
But nothing gets better!
I just wanted to say,
I've been that boy.
At some point.
I felt that way.
And I just wanted to say,
I am so sorry.
I know it hurts but hang on another day.
Please, stay with me dear.
Don't join that boy,
No, not tonight.
Stay with me,
Suckerpunch SweetheartRed lipstick war paint
I am a soldier in my own war;
A force split in two sides.
I am a force of nature
Bring about my own rapture
And I’ll bring you to your knees.
Little girl lost.
Cut off my hair
Cut into my skin
Pretty princess girl
Let me in
Let me in.
Sugar in my veins
And poison in my heart;
I can turn blood
Into a work of art.
I won’t go there again
Won’t do it
A sea of hands
In my head.
A universe inside.
Just what's inside.
quirks.when i was a child:
i loved to steal.
i would go around my neighborhood
and steal lawn ornaments.
at daycare, i would steal money
once, i stole my next door neighbor’s
when my parents confronted me,
the lie was smooth and solid:
i saw so-and-so take it.
when i was a child:
i loved to lie.
i would make up stories
to get reactions out of people.
to see if they’d believe me.
once, i convinced my friend charlotte
that i had twenty-four hours to live.
when she burst into tears,
i had to bite my tongue
to keep from laughing.
when i was a child:
i loved animals.
i would lock my dog in the closet
and in the bathroom.
a lot of my neighbors left birdcages out
during the day
so i set all of the birds free.
once, i imagined what it would be like
to kill an animal.
then, i imagined what it would be like
to run over it repeatedly
with a car
so i did it with my scooter
to a rose i found
because it was red
when i was a
Eternity Comes Only Once
...In a dream of eternal youth
with beautiful eyes and unspoken truths,
dancing on a thin thread drawn by Selena
in a blue night when all four winds talking about peace;
...In that unique poem when love
shines more than the Sun God on your ring finger,
weaving lasting hopes on a delicate cobweb
in a white day of the beginning of all beginnings;
...In a cold afternoon of December
with memories which surrounds the Arctic Circle,
melting everlasting snows that floods the time,
paradoxically, leaving behind them the fire which burns your heart;
....In the black hole of a single moment,
with pain, with answers, with courage, maybe with joy, or Not,
Waltz with the time between seconds,
Eternity comes only once...
i cradle my hope
with both hands,
as if holding it close
will give it the warmth
to stay alive.
when you come near
it flares and rustles,
begging to take flight;
yet i am both caress
we have confused our signals,
mixed our drinks and
closure looms ominous
but i would rather forget
than be caught in this
luminous void of
i am weak
you are blind,
perhaps we could be
if only we spoke.
you have unknowingly
in helical fundamentals
about my identity,
shaped me in
the embers of
i wish i knew
when to release
this frail hope.
we're both drunk
and you're shaking,
caught in a moment
neither here nor now.
bring you back to
the present, and i linger
but you are eager to eclipse
so you run.
i'm too afraid to ask,
but at least the question's
we're both cowards.
Demons Can Feel TooI'll admit that I'm a demon.
I'm cold and cruel,
Hateful and quick to anger.
I prefer darkness over light.
But demons can have feelings too.
I can be hurt, offended.
I can be sympathetic.
I can care for other people
And I can love.
I may be a cruel being.
Excessively so at times.
But that doesn't make me heartless.
Though I may seem so,
I do have a heart.
And I do use it.
Just not often.
Because the problem with having a heart
Is it can be broken.
And I don't want a broken heart.
I think maybe that's why demons seem so cruel and hateful.
They're just afraid of getting hurt.
Malalai heard a child scream once,
and it was the sound of Algebra,
the Cold War,
but also a mango seed
scraping wood to etch grammar rules.
my privilege mirrors bomb threats.
i have three dream catchers in my room,
all of which were created by foreign hands.
my hands tell a well-kept secret,
notebook paper and straight-edged rulers,
pencils with erasers attached.
the mango falls from the tree and the tree
understands its nakedness.
the student drops out of school and the school
understands its cut budget.
Malala nearly died for her right to literacy.
who am i, insignificant, ignorant,
to rebel against a system whose brokenness
is so manically coveted?
The Irony Of PerfectionOne who does not possess the gem of perfection sees himself but of a shadow of someone that is more, but yet renders clueless the plague he ceases to see upon him, for his imperfections sculpt him into a masterpiece all his own. The irony of perfection is only seen by the one who created himself perfect, his excellence in every lift of his finger and blink of his eye to bore him as he gains no further in what he used to value, in what his passion used to be but his love to vanish surprisingly as he preformed flawlessly to no where. Perfection creates nothing but bordom to build slowly as a sour scab on his soul, realizing he can go nowhere else but infront of a halting stop sign. He sighs as he watches his shadow build himself into more and more each day, longing to become what he was as if the shadow himself while the shadow builds only to become the possessor, unaware that he will soon wish to be his own shadow someday.