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Sunset Poppies

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  1. Untitled(anxiety)

    This is so amazing! I love the imagery
  2. H O T W A T E R

    I have a few critiques, if you want to hear them! :)
  3. I think, therefore I am. You think not of me, therefore I am not? I am here, where I think. You think of me elsewhere, where I do not. Do I exist alone with myself? Do I exist out of control with you? Or am I stuck to an in-between existence? To be more (and less) myself I think of seven impossible things before breakfast. Like Alice, A girl who is not me, But not unlike me. Is that who I am? A girl not myself, But not completely different? But yet, Despite warring thoughts, I think of seven impossible things before breakfast. One. I am as pretty as them. Two. I am as smart as them. Three. I am as kind as them. Four. I am as funny as them. Five. I am as courageous as them. Six. I am as interesting as them. Seven. I am as talented as them. I also think of seven other (similar) things (strong, athletic, fast, so on...) After breakfast, Before lunch, After dinner, And every other second of the day. Funny, how everyone says “Everyone feels this way, The other kids are going through The same exact thing!” Funny, how everyone looks away In utter discomfort When you say how you feel. Funny, how people think it’s funny If you say what you’re feeling With a laugh Like it’s joke. When really, simply put, You’d do anything To keep the silence away. Even lie. “Omg, I’m just kidding! Lol, can’t you guys take a joke? Obviously I don’t feel that way!” -Most girls, most days... please give feedback! I'm a new writer and need to get better.
  4. Burning the Midnight Oil

    Yes absolutely! I would really appreciate it!!!
  5. Burning the Midnight Oil

    Late night Starry eyed And though I know there are stars outside, I can’t see them. My midnight oil burns too bright And dims all other lasting light But as the stars and sun fall away with fright My midnight Oil Burns. I close the window to let me sleep, I block out all light taunting, But no matter how often I count sheep, From under the door Unrest comes through the cracks haunting. So though I fight the fire, My midnight Oil Burns. please give feedback! I'm a new writer and need to get better.
  6. Hold on. It will stop. It will get better. It was hard to believe on day one but only got harder on day five day six day thirty-three. What I feel doesn't have a proper definition. One could say that it’s missing your old school, but there’s more to it. There’s that memory of undeterred confidence. This sensation like when you know the material on a test like the back of your hand, where you walk around and say, “I completely know this, I am comfortable, I BELONG.” It also, perhaps permanently, changes your thinking from “this is what happened” to “what if this happened”. Every moment is strategized. With new friends, you must be cheerful, be funny, be attentive. What if they don’t like you? What if you don’t make any friends? What if, what if you run out of jokes, run out of story’s, fade into nothing? Even when you're with old friends, there’s those nagging questions. Oh my god, how are you? Or should I say, how's it going, short stacks ? “Yeah, ha.” That laugh was half hearted. You remember that inside joke, right? “Yeah, well, nice talking to you! I, uh, gotta go.” “Oh absolutely! Text you!” “...” You remember me, we’re still friends, I’m still here, RIGHT? You can hear it in the way we change the topic after we say things, like “my new friend” and “at my new school”. You can hear the false note in the laughter. You can hear it the way we act like nothing’s changed, when only everything has. The way we lie. “I’ll see you next week!” “I’ll text you as soon as I get home!” “Yes, we have to keep in touch!" “It’s funny how everything is so easy, it’s like we’re back at our old school!” Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. That’s the other thing about new-girl-itis. While your crumbling on the inside, the outside has to be a shell, strong, giving off the very same confidence you once felt. You have to fight to keep a nice, neat, tidy corner of you to show the outside world, while all the negativity adds to the piles inside of you. Creates walls too high to see through. Creates pressure on one’s shell. Those shells will break every now and then with enough pressure.
  7. Thoughts- A little desk, at which sits An ageless person, Made out of mirrors To reflect all the volumes. Catching only fragments of whats there In it's many many mirrors. Neglecting some volumes for a while. Neglecting some forever. But day and night, they reflect the volumes And volumes And volumes They write at the little desk, in the Growing library Filled with all the volumes. Creativity- A rainbow of colors moving outward In a spiral, Until its ambitious tendrils Colorfully reach, extend onto the Plain White Walls Of the Dusty Old Museum.
  8. Indecision- A complete and Utter blue, unsure about whether it is the sky, Raining and shining, And feeding the world, Or the sea, Accepting what The world does not Want. Or maybe neither, Maybe just a mirror, A reflection of such wonders. Sadness- A large dark shadow hangs, Solid and unfazed, Above an otherwise happy city. It peeks at you where you stand, And stands above mountain peaks, Always watching, waiting, judging, Ready to pounce. People rebel, But no one can defeat that Which is not really there Except inside of them. So the warriors fight the beast within, By turning guns and swords to themselves. And the people watch as the beast grows tall, Too tall, And blocks the last of the sun. And the happy city turns sad.
  9. Dreams- A distant oasis Hard to see clearly In the desert sun, Where you everything you wish Comes true in the waters of the pool. But no amount of walking, Will take you where you wish, As the oasis walks, The same pace, Many miles ahead. And so it becomes a kind of Hell. The heat, the boredom, The longing. Until you trip, Disrupt your even walking, And realize with a jolt, That none of it was ever really there. Just a mirage of your mind. Hope- A golden halo, Too high for any one to reach. A man, Or maybe many, Bringing their step stools, Their ladders, Their chairs, Their hearts, And climbing to the shining circle above. Until, Alas, They are blinded by What turns out to be the sun. They are ruined by their optimism. They are too vain To see their efforts Were in vain. Passion- A hot burning fire In absolute pitch black, That slowly reveals beings, Writhing in the darkness, Grateful, So grateful, For the fire’s light. But the fire feeds from them, Gathers from them, And rises (slowly) From the canvas, Until it rises into its surroundings, Swallowing the people who Admired it, So very much admired it, Feeding from them, Gathering from them.
  10. Imaginary Paintings (King Sisyphus)

    Determination- A famous rock, Fighting to follow gravity into the depths below. A famous king, Pushing the rock towards the heavens above. His eternal struggle for freedom. The perspiration on his forehead. The ache in his bones. His dream to reach the gods Who laugh at his failure. Giving up- The rock defeating the king. Prophetic. Freedom- The king defeating the gods. Impossible. Control- What only the gods have. Imaginary.