|I draw and write poetry. But before I started that, I did photography and still do once in a while. I hope you like them!! Comments and faves are VERY appreciated!|
Hope to WriteI should write more poemsHope to Write by Darvia123
I tell myself.
And then my mind wanders
Bringing up rhymes about
the blue of the sky
or the green of the spring scenes...
Only to lose them to a new blank thought in my head
about going to bed
about things people said
about what might make my tears shed
Maybe I'll receive a text
and get distracted from writing actual text
words meaning something to me
what will others think of these?
But there's always the possibility of
Could I write meaning back into someone's life?
Maybe that's too dramatic.
But there's always hope, right?
I hope to write, right.
|I write thoughtful reviews of art that strikes me as worthy. If you would like me to write a critique for you on a deviation of yours or a friend of yours, let me know! I try to be fair.|
Our MotherDesecrating and defilingOur Mother by ClockWorkArctic
We destroy our loving mother
Whose womb birthed us
Nurtured and provided us
Audaciously we pursue
The unending graciousness
With tainted hands reaching
We steal the last breathes
From the dying bosom of life
Ignoring the tortured cries
Persistently massacring home
Ignorantly killing ones self
Toxic venom breathed daily
Poisoned veins pumping
Feeding each cellular being
misbegotten mixes of carcinogenics
Deliciously devoured warnings
Appropriate desolation commencing
Furnace of ecological feed
Disassembling the master design
Disgracing the balancing act
Quickly disjointing power
Lastly falling into oblivion
My Secret GardenMy Secret GardenMy Secret Garden by WotanTyger
Strange little plants sprout from the dirt,
In my secret garden.
In thorny rings,
Hiding in the corner.
Along the sides,
Against the wall,
Deadly mushrooms grow.
In the middle is the Tree of Life,
It's losing branches now.
My secret garden is where I go,
To take away the pain.
The flowers and trees can talk to me,
And never feel the shame.
My secret garden keeps me sane.
At the bottom sits a little toad,
He tells me all he knows.
Buddy buddy, fat and ugly,
How does your ragweed grow?
Broken hearts that were once mine,
Grow in bushes around the trees,
And crumbled dreams that were once loved,
Are the soil on which they feed.
My secret garden is where I go,
To live those worthless days.
The flowers and trees can speak with me,
It's all I have to say.
My secret garden will fade away.
The Highway To Success.The Highway To Success.The Highway To Success. by KelaLewis-Morin
Caught in the same cycle,
Venturing on different routes.
Dealt an equal amount of cards,
All attempting to follow suit.
Each path is only built for one,
So the other is destined to lose.
The hungry and the blind are equal,
But who is misleading who?
Multiple mouths moulded to lie,
Resulting in many truths.
So when you offer me....
A way out of this unfair world.
An opportunity to avoid the sheer cold.
To have the freedom of being brave innovative and bold.
A place where all of my dreams are promised to unfold.
Where all of my dreams will be mine to grasp and hold.
And my story will become an infamous legend brought and told.
How can I believe any of your declarations?
When I know this will be a short lived collaboration.
However I yearn for your belief and your validation.
I appreciate you taking my dream in to consideration.
But you see we are on the same path of self gratification.
If the path was to decrease, you will dismiss me with no hesitation.
It's not b
Reflected InspectionReflected InspectionReflected Inspection by KelaLewis-Morin
Here I am again examining my disfigured figure in the mirror.
Fondling my fat wishing I could trim it down with a pair of scissors.
Relentlessly poking, prodding and picking at my face.
Leaving behind nothing but a black, coarse and scabby trace.
Furiously patting down my cheeks begging them to be smaller.
Standing on the edge of my toes willfully imagining that I am taller.
Folding my ears inwards commanding them to decrease in size.
Hysterically trying to find the beauty they said existed in my eyes.
Scrutinizing my nose using my hands to mould it into my desired shape.
Impatiently withdrawing my stomach to wonder how I would look if I lost some weight.
Slapping my overlapping thighs repeatedly, persuading them to become firmer.
Grasping the pair of scissors at my throat with the intent of committing my own murder.
Thinking to myself how can anyone ever find me remotely attractive?
And how can I ever expect myself to be regularly sexually active.
With me looking
My name is Clara Danielle McNamara. I am 14 years old. I love my freedom, and my happiness is precious. I love writing poetry, and drawing, and occasionally i do photography. I have depression problems, and all i want is someone to talk to. Feel free to comment on my art things i have done well on and things i need to improve on! i love the feedback |
I ALWAYS RETURN LLAMAS. Just a heads up.