Emma Whittle Apr 17

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.
Beau Scorgie Apr 12

It's funny,
being a writer.
Some days it's all
you want to do
but can't pull a word
through the fog
in your mind.

Or is that
just me?

Just write anyway
they say.
But some days
it feels foreign
to even hold
a pen.  

I don't quite know
how I got here.
To this day.
To the person I am.
With this mind
so dependent
on words,
on poetry,
on art.
As crucial to my wellbeing
as food,
as water,
as sleep.

No matter how much
I sleep,
I'm tired.

No matter how much
I eat,
or don't eat,
I'm self conscious.

No matter how much
I drink,
I should drink more.

No matter how much
I write,
I paint,
I draw,
I'm empty.
Never satiated.
Always grasping
and never reaching.
But for what?
I don't know.

I have this quirk
where I write words
in the air
with my finger
as I say them,
think them,
read them.
Consciously
and unconsciously.

I don't quite know
how it got there
but it feels right
and necessary.
Like when I
double check,
or triple check,
the light switches.

If I don't eat,
drink,
or sleep,
science says
I'll die.

Well I haven't
tested that theory,
but I do know
that without words,
without art,
I'll burn.

And that sounds
an awful lot
like dying
to me.

So I'll write,
I'll paint,
I'll draw,
religiously,
like a morning
cup of coffee,
and a 7am alarm
before I burn.

Free writing
Beau Scorgie Apr 9

A life model
stands bare at the core
of an easel mantle.
She wears her skin
like a flattering summer dress
and I wonder
if she even knows
she's naked.

I transfer her body
to paper
in a hundred charcoal swirls,
suspended evermore
in a breath of smoke.
My teacher says
my style suits me,
and I suspect he's right.

They're alive,
and full of vitality

he tells me,
comparing them to my other,
more refined drawings
and I feel myself
wanting to cry.

I try
to refine my life,
and myself,
as I do my models.
To be contoured
and controlled.
To be precise
and safe
as geometry.

I unfold beneath the frustration
of my clumsy form.

My hands cannot obey
to a command
my heart does not give.

But my heart commands acceptance,
and who am I to deny?
So I must abide,
and learn
to wear my messy heart
like a flattering summer dress
rippling in winters gale.

Sewing buttercups
into a storm.

Helena B Mar 17

I have tried to draw portraits of you
But my pen doesn't do you justice
You deserve to be craved from stone
You deserve to be permanent

Salpicar o teu rosto com farinha, enquanto preparassemos juntos o teu bolo favorito

Dar-te os beijos que me apetecesse, com os olhos, sempre que estivesses distraido a apreciar o "flowering tea", que te desse a escolher

Sentar-me no teu colo e ver-te desenhar

Fazer de ti a manta que me aconchega, entrelaçar os meus dedos nos teus e ver um filme até adormecer

Levar-te o pequeno almoço à cama e acordar-te com um beijo de bom dia.

Ser...
a única a conseguir te arrancar aquele sorriso nos piores momentos...
a bateria desenfreada a bater dentro do teu peito...
a tua melhor amiga...
quem faz valer cada acordar teu.

Que fosses a excepção que acreditei que eras, o porto seguro por quem vale a pena esperar para partilhar a vida.

Por ti... por nós... mudei, ignorei medos e arrisquei...
Não deste valor... desacreditei.

To make a war of white flour with you while we prepare your favourite cake

To kiss you secretly, with my eyes, whenever you would be distracted enjoying the flowering tea of your choice

Sit on your lap and see you drawing

Make you the blanket that cuddles me, entwine my fingers in yours and watch a movie until we fall asleep

To wake you up with a good morning kiss and have breakfast in bed with you

To be the one, to be the only one that makes you smile in the harsh moments, to be the cause of a unrestrained drums that beat inside your chest, to be your best friend, to be the one who makes it worth for you to wake up every day.

I wanted, I believed that you were the exception, the safe harbour for whom it is worth waiting for to share a life.

For you ... for us ... I changed, I ignored my fears and risked it all...
...
Rebel Heart Feb 14

I'm an artist they say...
I painted my illusions of dreams
I drew on a smile everyday,
I was happy, so it seemed

But my palette ran low
As my colors faded grey
Now my life holds on by a thread
And I'm just fighting just to stay

Because as the days go on,
I let these colors bleed through.
From my paper to my skin,
I'm nothing but red, black, and blue.

I turned myself into a canvas
Trying to describe this strife
But it wasn't beautiful at all
For my paintbrush was a knife

And my paintings are nothing but
empty promises of what we once knew
The only color left in my life
Are my memories of you

Well that escalated quickly...
Knights Feb 8

It was February 6th, the boy could taste the wood in his teeth

Had a bad habit, of a pencil, and biting on it

It was history class, in boredom the boy could pass

A blank page, for a bored mind like his in its own cage

The page screaming, for him to fulfill it with a drawing

A rock and a girl,
Seemingly in her own world

The boy had drawn a stranger, and although he had made her

And she had come from his thoughts, her, he didn't know lots of

It was interesting, he had made a character, perhaps story teller

Couldn't tell what she was thinkin', or who she was even

It was as if this image he'd made, had its own thoughts that would fade

Just like the rock, and the girl

Both drawn in pencil, would eventually fade leaving a mere sample

The page that was once empty, was fulfilled simply,

With the vision of a portrait, that by looking at it, it stood still

Yet anyone who interpret it carries,  their own series of stories

However, to the boy she looked  quite sad, maybe because he has what she never had

The ability of speaking, breathing, living, after all she is just a drawing

Maybe she seats on the rock with thoughts that are existential, as she realizes she is drawn in pencil

Where do they draw the line?
Things are not suitable for the times,
Some things so not funny, eh!
But acceptable norms do change,
As through the media we range........

Feedback welcome.
Gabriel Burns Jan 12

Charcoal hands
draw tales
of flames,
the kind that vow
to end us

Beneath the ash
a spark betrays
your warmest hues,
your sweetest sigh,
igniting you,
my canvas

Gabriel Burns Dec 2016

They breathe you in,
my charcoal dreams,
and into life
their ashes bleed.

And everything is canvas
frozen into silence,
letting go of notions, old,
anticipating me
to set flame to the cold
and sear through the sheen
of diamonds in their numbness.

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