|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.|
A Sour PlaceA Sour PlaceA Sour Place by WotanTyger
There are places in this world,
Where hope has gone sour,
And nothing seems to properly fit,
I knew such a place,
In seventh and eighth grade,
The old brick school with the musical pit.
Next door to a rubber plant,
It perched on the side of a hill,
Like the bag on a peddler's back,
I remember how nothing,
Ever felt completely real there,
And even time seemed slightly out of whack.
It was a dull and ugly building,
Shaped like a reversed and squared letter 'C'
Rebuilt from the ashes of an older school.
A bastard conglomeration,
Of 1890s and 1970s,
Which was worn-out the day it was renewed.
The previous school,
Had been put to the flames,
And its memories offered to the sky,
By a crazed church organist,
Who watched from a nearby rooftop,
And exercised the cliché of laughing 'til he cried.
And even a decade later,
When I arrived within its rebuilt walls,
The scars were still plain to see,
And the remains of crumbling bricks,
From older walls offered to the fire,
breaking a writer's heart.never break a writer’s heartbreaking a writer's heart. by colbalt-rain
because your name
will forever belong to us.
you will sign it
into every broken bit
and one day, you’ll open a book
next to the words
"let me tell you about the time
i was hurt."
never break a poet’s heart
because between the beat
of the stanzas,
you’ll hear that heartbeat,
proving you wrong
with every line.
never break a writer’s heart
because we will take the pain
and make it into something
you could never live down.
you could live with heart monitors,
that measured the damaged pulse,
doctors who told you,
but you can’t live with the bold strokes,
smooth as a flatline,
that accuse you of being
the best thing
that’s ever happened to them.
you can’t live with it;
our soulmate, now writing.
You, now replaced
by a pen.
never break anybody’s heart
because you’ll cut yourself
on the pieces of it.
and see, hearts heal.
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.