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My cats

Listening to music

Writing

Poetry

Art

Pretty like spring

She was pretty.

Not pretty like a sunset or a painting,

Those were too bright and bold to ressemble her.

No, she was quiet like the night and her voice was melodious like the soft songs of birds in the early morning.

She had eyes the colour of the ocean, yet not quite exactly.

No, her eyes were the colour of a thunderstorm, expressive and powerful.

Her skin glowed in the sun, not perfect, not always smooth, but so beautiful.

Her smile was like a thousand stars, shining so bright even the sun was jealous.

She was a mystery, yet so very magnetic; walking away from her made no sense when her entire being promised an infinity of new beginnings.

She was immensely pretty, but not pretty like the sun or the moon.

She was pretty like spring, like the soft rays of sunshine that melted the winter's snow,

Like the small flowers that grew on every inch of grass and littered every garden.

She was pretty like butterflies and puppies,

The way you could never tear your eyes away.

And she did all that effortlessly.

Late night poetry

I always find I'm most creative when the sun is down and the stars are shining.

I always find I'm the loneliest at night,

But that only gives me topics to write about.

I guess the time between midnight and 2 a.m. is when my thoughts finally make sense.

Its not the blissful ignorance of the day when I shut it out by paying attention to my friends,

Neither is it like the loud jumble of thoughts as I try to sleep.

It's like an ocean comes pouring down, and instead of using the faucets that are my eyes,

It flows evenly, out in the shape of words that express everything.

But I guess it's a shame no one ever noticed,

For late night poems are often the ones that cut too deep.

In English, we say "I miss you."

But in poetry, we say...

"I cried again today,

Thinking of all I wanted to say.

I don't get why you decided to throw it all away.

You were my North, my South, my East and West,

Truly my home, but now I can't seem to rest.

I still smile when I remember our happiest memories,

I still laugh at the jokes you made,

Why did you have to go away?

I think of you every night,

Wondering 'how is your life?'

Have you achieved all you told me about,

Or is your head still full of doubts?

I cried again today,

Wishing I could have made you stay,

But you're happier without me

And I have to accept that you became a memory."

I'm out of inspiration and bored so if anyone has any ideas/prompts or just wants to request a poem, my ask box is open. You could even just send a random word or a theme for the peom and I'll try to come up with something.

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

La lune solitaire,

Dans le ciel, elle erre seule,

Son éclat, sa douleur.

The lonely moon's light,

In the sky, it wanders alone,

Its glow, its pain.

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

I signed up to my school's writing contest and we have to write a 1200 characters text. The theme is about colors.

I can't figure out whether I should write a depressing poem or a fantasy/happy/creative poem.

I know that the teachers will like the depressing one more, but I would have more fun writing something crazy and creative.

I don't know what to do.