To Any Suicidal Followers I May Have: This Is A Sign To Not Kill Yourself. You Are Loved And The World

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

No happy ending this time

The thing about you,

Is that I truly loved you.

And the worst thing about it,

Is that I would forgive you in a heartbeat.

But you won't return, you made it clear.

You and me is a thing of the past,

You don't ever want to be seen near.

Bed time stories are meant to last,

But there is no happy ending for us this time.

I was the villain in your tale,

Yet you were the hero in mine.

I tried to forget you, but to no avail.

I don't want to give up on our fairytale.

Your father planted a tree and said, ‘As long as this tree is alive and healthy, so is my son.’ That was 200 years ago. Today, the tree still stands, defying time, but what of the son?

Could you write something about fairys?

The Faerie's Ballad

In the soft twinkle of night, or in the choas of the day,

Do not fear, children, for faeries are never far away.

If only you paid closer mind,

You too would see their wings shine.

Dancing in meadows and singing in trees,

Faeries have always been near.

Those delicate beings, full of grace and love,

Sometimes perform spectacles we have grown to ignore.

For who would watch a waterfall and see in it the faeries' orchestra ?

We have long since forgotten the tune of their opera.

Once upon a time, we wished upon them,

The brightest stars to our imagination.

But now in this world full of gray,

Faeries have learnt it is better to hide away.

list 5 things that make you happy, then send this to the askbox of the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! get to know your mutuals and followers! <3

My cats

Listening to music

Writing

Poetry

Art

Three wishes

If I found a magic lamp, or a fairy,

I already know what I would ask the genie.

I'd wish someone would look at me

Like they are mesmerized

By a sunset or a stary night.

I'd wish someone would care enough

To hold me when days are tough,

Yet still see me as a person,

And not just a burden.

I'd wish someone would help

Paint a smile on my face

And finally bring joy to this place.

But I have no genie, no magic wand or fairy,

No wishes left, no promises kept.

I have no flying carpet or broom,

No way to get to the moon,

So I sit, wide awake, at night,

Hoping it would all be alright.

But at the end of the day,

I'm all alone and you're far away.

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

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.

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.

Sixteen

This year, I turned sixteen.

I expected it to be a dream,

But it was nothing like what we see in movies.

I didn't get a party with all my friends,

I didn't sneak out in the end,

I barely got a card from them.

This year, I turned sixteen.

I waited for it my whole life,

Because sixteen is the dream, right?

I look back and I only realize

How wrong I was.

I wish I could go back.

This year, I turned sixteen.

Not even half my friends remembered,

And I feel more lonely than ever.

I wish I could go back.

I wish I could go back to playing all day,

To dressing up instead of worrying about what to say.

I wish I could still look up at my parents,

I wish I still liked myself.

This year, I turned sixteen.

I wish I could still be a kid.

The dream, if you ask me,

Is to turn back into the child I used to be.