Painting with few strokes at a time,
Careful, precise, and gentle,
staying, inside the lines,
Painting without thought--just instructions,
The madness oh how it,
drives me mental,
Grabbing at the future,
I splashed and smeared,
Covering this canvas with emotion,
I look at my hands,
dirtied and covered in paint,
colors combined calling my fate,

who could take my freedom but me?

So I tossed my manual,
Forgetting those instructions,
Painting with passion,
no effort or rules,
I smiled at the sky,
For now, I am a fool, for the chains, I have placed,
For people so abaist,
This is my will to live,
I thrive to be me,
In the world of judgment and greed,
there will be a day,
where the world will be off guard,
that will be my time to change this world,
to take charge.
______________
By: Ashtyn Riddle

Poetry in its rawest form, is not only literature but an inkwell filled with empathy and a parchment awaiting possibilities

He was the sun, and I was the moon.
Without him, I couldn't illume the night.
I took all the darkness, he had morning and noon,
Without each other, the world wasn't right.
He was the fire, and I was the ice.
He'd bring the chaos without thinking twice.
Whatever flesh he burns, I come to aid.
I touch him without ever being afraid.
He was the ground, and I was the sky.
Aware of each other, but turn a blind eye.
He gave me vapor, I gave him the weather;
It was our only way of being together.
He was the mass, and I was the space.
And without hesitation, in my life, he took place.
I let him consume me, I didn't mind, you see,
I was just happy that somebody needed me.
He was he, and I was me.
What a fool I've been to trust and believe
That we need each other, when the sad truth is,
All there has been for us, was to coexist.