art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
No More Beauty
And she finally gave up. Her tray of colors that made her world bright was scraped dry of all it’s paint. No more yellows to make the sun less grim, no more greens to make the grass less terrifying and no more blues to take out the sorrow from the sky. She had no paint to create the world that she wanted everyone to see, that she hoped to see. For a while it was like she never ran out of paint because her memory kept her world full of color but memories fade just like the colors the world was once again gray, grim and full of sorrow. It was like her painted world had froze over by -60°. She begin to feel the way the world looked she wore gray on her skin, sorrow on her face and sadness on her lips but no one noticed. No one noticed that the world has changed color along with her skin no one noticed that the paint buckets were too high for her to reach; all she needed was a little help to paint her world back into color
By Kylie Dunaway8 years ago in Poets
Random Thoughts
I keep needing to remind myself to talk to people. I don’t do it enough because I’m always somewhere else. My own place and I don’t let others in. It’s not on purpose it’s just that I don’t leave. I can’t find the ones to share with, or don’t. I’m too distracted by what’s there, in the place. I like it too much. Not the superficial or quick reward, but that of great thought. It would be great to show them. They can’t see it now, it must be perfect. If they peer through my window I shall cover it in ambiguity. Not yet, maybe later, when it’s ready. The prison is comfortable and my vision is not clear. The world is great and yet the window is better. The cloud filled eyes on my head wander like the thoughts of mine. They rest on others, or really a thought through the window. Eye contact is lost when they see me, but I don’t see them. Their world is great, the journey there is hard and yet the window is bitter. My head will eternally rest on the sleepless dreams that light my room of dark thought.
By Andrew Schrader8 years ago in Poets
Where to Go
The fear among us is commonplace Like a secret that is undisclosedSame feeling as seeing a carcass Something we are taught to be disposedFeelings can’t just fucking be ignoredIt is an arrogance not unknownWith it being so unjustifiedI will try not to ignore my own
By Andrew Schrader8 years ago in Poets
Frosted Journey
My boots hit the ground and I quiver at every crackEvery step makes the entire body of water acheA desert of ice is all one sees when they look backHow can I make it from the middle of the this lakeI'm too far, it'll be useless if I try to backtrackTrying to grasp my body as it begins to shake
By Andrew Schrader8 years ago in Poets
