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savedbythepen
17/F/United States
Poems2
Followers2
Words168
corona no not the beer yet do not fear even if one must only have one year left. no right i’m tossing and turning it is such a sleepless night a world so mean i’m trapped in quarantine hoping, i will be alright no school for 50 days maybe it’s just a phase but what if this is the end. no it can’t be. i’ll just take off my mask and breathe but the air is so so toxic. toxic like britney i wanna dance like whitney but how must one dance when the clock is ticking. tick tock. the shelves are not stocked it is harder to get tested than it is to get a glock so i ponder the question how hard is it to be clean? and how many times must one wash their hands to thus **** covid-19
0
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 7:01 PM UTC
savedbythepen
Corona
corona no not the beer yet do not fear even if one must only have one year left. no right i’m tossing and turning it is such a sleepless night a world so mean i’m trapped in quarantine hoping, i will be alright no school for 50 days maybe it’s just a phase but what if this is the end. no it can’t be. i’ll just take off my mask and breathe but the air is so so toxic. toxic like britney i wanna dance like whitney but how must one dance when the clock is ticking. tick tock. the shelves are not stocked it is harder to get tested than it is to get a glock so i ponder the question how hard is it to be clean? and how many times must one wash their hands to thus **** covid-19
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I could never paint with a steady hand, creating a piece bright enough to light a dark city was like tying shoes without laces I briefly remember my first grade year. My heart, beating blood red as roses, told me to bloom as far as the sky could reach. In art class, I’d scribble some old beaten down crayons across printer paper Hoping to create sunshine from nothing but sticks of wax It felt like only yesterday my friends and I didn’t know our fingers from our thumbs, or our neighbors from our critics. We were too oblivious to understand that it was impossible to perform a concert to a crowd facing backwards. Too frozen in a field full of snow, to realize that our creativity would soon be abolished by the opinions of society. Society, a word I didn’t hear until around sixth grade I quit drawing flowers because the heart that once told me to bloom warned me that my petals would soon be picked apart by the people standing around me. Crayola boxes, once filled with spirit and embodiment, somehow lost their color. Playing with bubbles in the backyard until the sunset had turned into endless nights In the kitchen studying textbooks until my mind could no longer function My luminous peace of mind now dulled by what they call “reality” Yesterday, I threw all of my pennies in a wishing well. My knees now bruised from entreating the world to hold their prisms up to the sun, hoping they’d discover the hidden hues that Imagination may transfuse, The philosophy, of one’s youth.
0
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
savedbythepen
Fingerpaint Philosophy
I could never paint with a steady hand, creating a piece bright enough to light a dark city was like tying shoes without laces I briefly remember my first grade year. My heart, beating blood red as roses, told me to bloom as far as the sky could reach. In art class, I’d scribble some old beaten down crayons across printer paper Hoping to create sunshine from nothing but sticks of wax It felt like only yesterday my friends and I didn’t know our fingers from our thumbs, or our neighbors from our critics. We were too oblivious to understand that it was impossible to perform a concert to a crowd facing backwards. Too frozen in a field full of snow, to realize that our creativity would soon be abolished by the opinions of society. Society, a word I didn’t hear until around sixth grade I quit drawing flowers because the heart that once told me to bloom warned me that my petals would soon be picked apart by the people standing around me. Crayola boxes, once filled with spirit and embodiment, somehow lost their color. Playing with bubbles in the backyard until the sunset had turned into endless nights In the kitchen studying textbooks until my mind could no longer function My luminous peace of mind now dulled by what they call “reality” Yesterday, I threw all of my pennies in a wishing well. My knees now bruised from entreating the world to hold their prisms up to the sun, hoping they’d discover the hidden hues that Imagination may transfuse, The philosophy, of one’s youth.
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