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.
NURUL AMALIA Apr 9

dear paper..
don't you ever think?
it's not easy as I draw a line or dot
it's more complicated than coil of rope
I even can't sketch it
but I note word by word
it's all my dream

Wyatt R Feb 16

Sketch me down in your notebook,
take away the insecurities and the imperfections
that exist just to mess up the message here.
Who am I? You decide.
I tried to lead myself and ended up
losing myself when I tried to fly.
Sketch me down in your notebook
and take away all the bad.
Draw a perfect picture.

Try and draw some kind of fairytale where I'm in the shining armor trying to defeat the beast. In reality I am the monster in that storyline just trying to escape.
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

Watching the motorway
from the cafe'.
resting my feet of clay.
Under a sky of clouds,
that some may say,
have silver linings.
But all I can see is the grey.

Divine Dao May 2016

We are going to have
a lot of fun
I promise! It will not be Like blood ending "Promise."

Although -- Alternative flight off is recomended!

When I see beauty I recognize it!
When I see a dark tragedy creeping along the alleys of life,
travesty of its bitterness pressures the chairos in me,
reeling the karma of all
the involved acteurs.

To catharsis?

Leah Barton Apr 2016

Did I conjure her from lovesick alchemy
Robe her in the blankets of my dreams
Draw her skin from autumn fallen prophecy
Try and keep her singing by my vigil side
Sketch her beauty in the ink of outcast Angels
Tapping at the gates for pearls to greet her with
Did her vessel roll upon some fabled porous shores
Peeling past the burlesque mist to show her curves
Gently bringing dancing dainty feet to hardy vale
Did she wait inside an empty echo of a present moment room
Just to show her love when all else fades to crescent silence
To offer her caress and wrap her sheepskin arms around my winter
Did she venture on some car seat clouds from Arcadia
Or walk across the scattered sands of disillusion just to touch In our cathartic bliss
To stay right by my entwined vines hereafter while all the others sleep too much
Until it dawns that I am simply mortal fate but she will last forever

This wasn't written by me. It was by a poet on poetfreak named "Fixative Creative" It is the most beautiful poem I've ever read. I wanted to share it all with you.
Lisa Lesetedi Apr 2016

Strangers first meet, but I found home in his eyes...
My Name on his tongue enough to send quavers down my thighs
But it was more than that
Something in the story he told
Something in his chapters I couldn't wait to unfold.
Strangers first meet...
Eyes binding
Two strangers with an end worth finding ..
But it was more than that...
It was the way he carried himself
The way he licked his lips like marination...for the tender words he spoke.
My body, mind and soul he could provoke.
Two strangers first meet
Two dreams come together
Temporary forevers
Waking up becomes a nightmare
I met the perfect guy
And if he's selling, his dreams I did buy.

My Dearest Reno Mar 2016

a cooling to the air,
jacaranda bend, sticks of majesty
a sleeping heart to gently touch,
express the principal of silence
wrapped into the clouds, we rise
beloved so precious with sheen,
hues of uncontrollable pinks and blues
in chase of deer, in chirp of bird
all harmoniously dipping and diving
creator painting expressed joys
phenomenon can be observed,
wind pulses with rhythmic beat

Martin Narrod Feb 2016

in the penguins luck the furnace begins
at reprograming the news. Picture frames on 2 x 4s , three
photographs and glass bottles in the most decadent of matrimonies.
Three-hundred million dollars.
And the race riots show 'em who'll take the dampit from the mound of
Soot stained elements, canvas, trash bags, electric guitar riffs, giraffes, bingo, the drip-drop on the drop cloth. Easing into the new processor.

She who settles the wages of crickets with ether and single-barrel vanilla buckshot and maple. Incisors and cynical stereotypecastes and the shadows of the other mugged and loose canonical charades the worser and worsening play their ad keywords at in the sketchmakers many movements her dactyls fine and her fingertips many. Sweet lines of breathing and setting.

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