Sixteen

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.

To any suicidal followers I may have: This is a sign to not kill yourself. You are loved and the world is special because you are in it. Keep holding on.

-PLEASE REBLOG THIS YOU MAYBE ARE SAVING SOMEONES LIFE

You are special and amazing , If you need to talk or some help send me a dm and I will talk to you.

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.

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.

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.

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

Found another prompt on pinterest, here's what i wrote

I would like to take some time to appreciate the irony, of a god as old as eternity being mistaken.

If I were to ask you what your thoughts were about Death, the big old guy with the scythe and the creepy cloak, what would you say? That Death brings desperarion and desolation, grief and pain and nothing more. Some might even fear him.

But in this apocalyptic wolrd, things are different, because if all humans die, so does Death.

For what is the Grim Reaper without souls to reap?

Nothing, exacly.

So Death does as best he can, leaving clues, messages and warnings in his trail, hoping to help any poor soul who might look close enough to notice it. They might not be able to see him, but common sense get better as people fight for survival, and gut feelings – Death's indications, really – are often more important.

The survivors have started to realize only now that a higher being watches over them. Is it God or the Saints? No, it's Death itself. But were you to ask them, they would answer you truthfully that the entity protecting them is known as Life.

Ironic, isn't it?

At least Death thinks so, laughing every time he remembers this.

Found this on pinterest a while ago and thought I'd try writing something.

It was raining again.

The girl watched from her window, eyes dazed as she focused on the sounds. There had been a time when she would hope for the message to change, for a • to change into a –. She had learnt over time to stop being delusional; the rain always brought bad news. Today, it was simple: a one word sentence, the same word, over and over, warning her of something she could not escape.

•–• ••– –•

Run.

How was she supposed to run from the rain? To hide from the sky? She had thought it would be a good idea to learn Morse Code, it would have been a great addition to her resume once she would go to college. But she had never thought the rain would drive her crazy. The dip-drip-drop of the water and the clip-clip-clop on her window was slowly making her drown in madness. The chaos of this horrendous symphony was taking over her every thought in a mess of what used to be genius.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.

She hated the rain, she had learned to fear its message for it was never wrong.