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scar Jun 2015
i don't want my skin to be baby soft
or smooth like a child's
i want it to crinkle at the edges
to wear the reminders
of every single time i've smiled

i don't want my hands to look young
untainted, perfectly just so
i want them to demonstrate
years of work, decades of holding
the hands of others
and cleaning up the messes of life
forging a better world

i don't want my body to be unblemished
unbroken and crater-free
i want it to be broken in places
to have scars and tiny stories
woven into its tapestry
marks that tell of the way it has stretched
and bent, and cracked open
to let the light of the world
all the way in

i don't want to look perfect
i want to look like i've lived.
ellie May 2015
Do not tell me what love is,
and what love is not.
They say love is like butterflies in your stomach,
like two halves of a whole,
but, at least to me, that's not what love is.

Love is not a perfect movie romance,
it is raw, it is powerful,
it is real.
Love is a natural disaster; a tsunami of emotions destroying everything in it's path,
it's a war filled with bombs, sacrifice and pain but somehow you still continue the battle.
Love is not a walk in the park at sunset,
it is the tugging of hair and the smell of sweat in the air as you moan into each other's mouths,
it is the moments you ought to feel vulnerable as you lie naked chest to back but all you feel is security,
it is the anger and the tears and raised voices because you never expected to feel so desperately and wholly completed by someone else.

Love is not sweet,
unless you love the taste of sugar-coated *******.
Love is an unexplained wrenching in your chest,
a thousand tears shed and a million more to come,
aching, unbearable lust that makes you hate yourself more than insults ever could

but, at least to me, it's worth it.
Every moment of pain has been worth it because I am so irrevocably in love with you.
Nikita May 2015
Get a haircut
Some style
And a whole lot less annoying.
Neen May 2015
Let me write my love
On every wall
I will paint entire
Cities with your name
Every metaphor a
Thinly veiled attempt
To describe the stars
In your eyes

Let me compose symphonies -
Conduct orchestras and choirs
To sing your praise
Every note an ode to
The way the moonlight
Caresses the curves of your face

Let me put brush to canvas
And I will command
Every hue
Every brushstrokes
To reveal the secret
Of your smile

And if you let me
I would dedicate
my entire life
To master every art form
If it meant I could accurately convey
The feelings you stir within me
Kate Lion Apr 2015
i write because i can make it as smooth or as
c h   o   p
                p y    as i want.  unlike life.
Sydney Ann Apr 2015
Freestyle:                                My heart
                                                         Coming alive
                                                               Again,
                                                        Finally maybe
                                                             I can live

my heart is coming alive
again yes it's awake now
my old radiance                                      
:Haiku

                                                 *Rhyme:
                  My heart is coming alive
                                                                                 again, it's on fire,
                                                                                 finally I can maybe
                                                                                 reclaim my significant
                                                                 brand of crazy

Sentence:        My heart is coming alive again, finally maybe I can be free

Literal             I feel so good again and the future doesn't seem so scary anymore
hey Mar 2015
Who are you to tell me how to dress when you look a mess?
"Hah! You look so ridiculous!
What are you, some sorta freak?"

"Well, you look so status-quo,
very much like everyone else.
Wearing this, I'll meet interesting people,
wearing that, you'll meet boring people.
To be certain,
I am at least one kind of freak,
but at least I serve to entertain:
you're welcome for the free smile."
Life is the biggest Festival:
Dress accordingly.
Eleanor K Mar 2015
Potential is not made when you are a child,
Though, at that age, your elders will search for it.
Potential is made when you pick up a pen,
a pencil, a marker, a paintbrush,
For the first time,
Or for the millionth.

Perfection is nearly caught by a camera,
And never by the hand.
But, if paintings looked like a digital picture,
What would be the point of such expression?
If you are looking to draw with such precision,
Look and find another passion,
another hobby, another profession, another way to vent.
If you are looking to find yourself,
to find peace, to find wisdom, to find enjoyment,
Pick up your hand and take the tool.

The artist's style is found through mistake.
A style, is a lack of perfection,
to show the world through your eyes, to alter it.
What you don't understand,
You will toil over, stress over,
hate yourself over, be frustrated over.

Look away from your mistake for a moment.
What is left, is what is yours.
This will change slowly overtime,
As you become better at both strength
And weakness.
The battle between these two opponents,
Will guide your journey.
The art itself is only a mirror of reflection,
Showing all you have done, your past,
your struggles, your joys, your imperfections, your toils,
This is an artist's style.

Pick up your pen,
Your potential is now.
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