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Emma Whittle Apr 2017
She grabbed her faux leather messenger bag,
threw in 3 old band t-shirts, 3 pairs of underwear,
2 bras and a couple pairs of ripped skinny jeans, her Polaroid camera to take photographs of where she goes, a book, a journal to document her thoughts, a sketch pad, a package of Marlboro Red 100's, a lighter,  her iPod and some toiletries.  She didn't say anything, she just out and left. No note, no warning, nothing but her mess of a room.  She smiled at her room, her dream catcher, her poster-strewn walls, all of it.
And she slipped out of her window.  'Goodbye,' She thought to herself and started walking.  But what she didn't know was she had
just left her life and started a brand new one.  She was walking to the edge of oblivion.  She was shooting herself straight off a cliff,
off of the safety under her roof, the safety of her bed, the safety of everything she left behind.  All she had was that bag.  17 items. That was her life. 17 items to keep her safe, 17 items to live on for the rest of her time.  For the 3 years until she was 18.  Until she could show her face in public again until she could be seen.  But until then, she was alone.  She sparked her lighter and lit up a cigarette.  All alone with her bag and a package of cigarettes. She sat down on the curb by the bus stop and began to draw.  And that was that.  She was lost in her mind. Her mind had run farther than she had. Because after all,
we're
               all
                              mad
                           ­                       here..
Have you ever just wanted to run away? No note, no warning of leave, just pack your things and leave your world to create your own. To taste the edge of oblivion.
Erin Suurkoivu Mar 2017
I search for the true reflection.
Is it in the mirror or the camera?
Is it in a lover’s eyes or an enemy’s?

I don’t profess to stand on a pedestal,
but I stand on something,
and it seems it’s always something

that knocks me off.
And we may say, I know, I know,
for I have also been there.

I know who she is. I know, I know.
I know the problems she’s facing,
as if we are all wise men.

But it’s becoming clear
that you can only ever walk
in your own shoes.
Amanda Francis Feb 2017
Zephyrs stirred the warm salty air around my softly sleeping soul.
Orange danced with pinks and reds, the sky ablaze as the sun lays down to rest.
Optograms of you whirl around my head, my feeble raft floats, fearlessly falling.
Macrobian is this? Though guarded, I wistfully wonder,
as mabsoot I am.

Ocean arms envelop me in a coolness so bittersweet, I live and die a thousand deaths swimming in thoughts of you.
Underneath a velvet black sky, I sink, infinite celestial bodies gather to say goodbye.
T**ime may leave my immortal body behind,  
so I will love you enough to last eternity while were here!
Zephyrs = a gentle breeze
Optogram = images burned on the retina
Macrobian = long-lived
Mabsoot = Happy
crystallaiz Feb 2017
you squinted through
and took a picture
that yellow summer
we sat under green trees
blew bubbles
that popped on the brown bark
the ground was littered with the fallen
a graveyard of white flowers
the wind turned them into dancers
broken butterfly wings
pretty like the boy
with the beautiful dreams
there was wetness on your cheeks
i took your hand
and snapped a picture
for that person who takes photos and refuses to get out of my head
Iris Woodruff Feb 2017
Somethin' about an empty room, depending on how the light asks to be let in on its edges.
An empty room don’t expect you to do nothin' whatever. And its floor responds in this kinda lilting relief when you tap-dance barefoot upon it.
If you sit in all its corners, with your eyeballs (try it!) you can trace the refractions and suggestions on the wall, 'specially the places where paint and odd plaster stick up like little men and cast shadows all their own.
You can spend hours doing this.
You, the impressionable film upon which the world's projected herself—you turn the world upside down and make sense of the image in this empty box.
You
Make art here.
Shout here! Run and kick and punch through the walls and
Love them as you do so, kid.
Something about emptiness itself, gets a lot of flack, you think,
cast as grave.
Hell!
Emptiness: potential,
Emptiness: casting being in sharp distinction.
Emptiness: sensual, like breath before the
action of the human magnetic.
You: the one alive in this your empty room and therefore acutely aware of
what you chose to project in such vibrant relief.
Today, it is newspapers and magazine clippings and a notebook and a blue pen and a book by Susan Sontag.
Today you lie on the woody floor, supine, eyes wide
and become part of it
your lungs breathe life into this ancient emptiness. And the air between its walls vibrates, and sighs, nascent, ‘thank you.’
Ricky J Jan 2017
I wish your camera could capture my inner landscape
for at times It would show rows of lush green meadows, deep still waters and vibrant rainbows.

I wish your camera could capture my heart ache
for at times you would see turbulent winds with violent black holes, jagged nails and deep buried gold.

I wish a your camera could capture my imagination
for you would see a worlds inisde worlds covered in oceans of pink, a dispay of unseen colours one could not possibly think.

I wish your camera could capture my thoughts
for you would see a rusty old machine operating with frozen cogs, attempting to function in a blazing fog.

I wish your camera could capture my mind
for you would finally understand this pain of mine.
You can either take a photo or shoot a video.
A Photo reminds you of the past and makes you wish time had stayed frozen. A Video lets you relive a moment, fulfilling your need to stay young and to be lost in an endless loop of memories.
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