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Nova Oct 6
So like
She’s amazing
I’m her friend
But yet she rubs it in my face
Oh, you know, “it” as in “I can draw better than you.”
It’s confusing
We both love art
We have our own style
We’re both quite good.
But still she has more friends
So she gets more popular.
And she rubs it in.
orchid Aug 18
A sidewalk.
A blank canvas.
I press the chalk against it's dull surface.
Wasn't the sidewalk so sickening
When it served it's original purpose?

It's fun.
But the more I draw,
The more I feel like my work isn't done.
As the chalk sinks deeper and deeper,
It's height grows shorter and shorter.

Soon, the sidewalk is covered
In a blur of colours, in a blur of lines,
In a blur of meaning, in a blur of time.
Haven't I ruined it all?..

But.
It begins to rain,
And the sidewalk returns to it's original state,
while my drawings go down the drain.

I guess it was better as is.
Calm and collected
There's a power
To amber evening light
The bearer of night
The songs of birds
Resonating in my bones
Rhythm pulsing
In my soul
Alone has never been
So powerful
Listening to The Mephistopheles of Los Angeles and drawing isn't the worst way to spent an evening.
Anastasia Jun 29
early morning
and I am warm
still bleary,
but content
while I listen to cavetown
and wonder when I'll see you today
perhaps soon
and maybe
you will like the drawing I made for you
perhaps not the most exciting poem, but it's here, from my heart
D A W N Jun 16
when a piece of paper used to be a
refuge
for my thoughts and ideas
remains blank,dull,empty.
i miss the feeling of comfort
whenever
a pen lies in my hand.
hands clutched firm into the paper
the pen never dared travel from the surface
without imagination, what is art after all.
i stopped drawing and the piano's been collecting dust n all my paint materials are getting hard hshahdsad what am i doing with my life
Anastasia May 16
Lashes

Soft like petals

Eyes

Likes cloudy stones

Covered in soft soil

I like to watch you

Dreams like clouds

And roses

And rain

I think

You are pretty

And I like to watch

Your hands move

Your pencil,

Making

Your eyes, moving

I like to watch
days by the water, covered in dandelions
Indigo May 4
I knew a boy who liked to draw,
He drew pictures that no one saw.
He was most artistic late at night,
In the bathroom out of sight.
He kept a secret that no one knew,
He didn’t tell, but his gallery grew.
His drawings were different, he used no paper or pen,
But he constantly needed a bandage again and again.
We stood by the river under the stars,
He rolled up his sleeves reveling his scars.
He felt embarrassed and looked down at his shoes,
I rolled up my sleeves and whispered,
“I draw too.”
Jaxey May 1
i watch the ink run down my arm
the pen, writing the feelings
i could never explain with words;
sitting on my bathroom floor
never led to anything
but unwanted art
pain isn't worth unwanted art
Kim Apr 10
It is powerful,
It is growing,
It is tangible,
It wants to escape.

Words fight with colours,
Sights blend with sounds,
Flashing and pulsing,
They need to get out.

It swells in your heart,
It courses your veins,
It floods through your brain,
It needs a release.

Music shifts to patterns,
Dreams change to lights,
Shapes become energy,
Ideas start to form.

It roars in your ears
It pulses inside,
It overwhelms everything,
It takes control.

The brightness unites.
Thoughts become words,
You write the first letter.
It is free.
Just getting some words out to release a choking ball of creative energy and inspiration that's currently overwhelming me.
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