Once A Little Boy Went To School. One Morning The Teacher Said: “Today We Are Going To Make A Picture.”

Time

If I were to ask you which feeling is worst,

What would you say?

Would you tell me how hate is such a vile host,

Or would you rather speak of sadness's tragedy?

Perhaps you'd even go as far as considering apathy.

But if I were to answer such a question,

I would say being forgotten.

Have you ever even thought

Of your memory being brought to a stop?

If people didn't recognize you today,

Would that be okay?

For what do humans aim to do,

Building and painting our world gray?

Leaving a trace so their memory won't fade away.

Can you pretend you wouldn't too,

If I threatened to forget you?

Death is far from the scariest,

But rather the thought of turning into nothing again,

For every person's memory

Never lasts for eternity.

You may be a genius, a scientist in all your glory,

But what good is it if you're not committed to history?

So if I were to ask you again what the worst feeling was,

Would you change your answer or accept the reality of time?

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.

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.

What the fuck just happened, he thought as he stood in a white room.

One moment he was in his garden, fixing the new table he had built, and the next he was in a seemingly never-ending white space. Was this heaven or something ? Had he died? Or maybe this was some kind of hospital room – could be, the lights there are always so blinding!

"Hello?" He called out, anxiously. "Anyone's there?"

He turned in slow circles, half expecting something to attack him from nowhere.

He jumped as a door opened with a swoosh – he swore there was nothing but white there a moment ago ! Some kind of creature walked in, wearing an astronaute-like combinaison. Could have been a human if not for its sluggish gray skin and mop of tantacles where hair should be. Its unnaturally black eyes didn't help either.

What was this thing? Where was he? Was this a dream? He pinched himself to check ; it hurt.

The alien-monster-astronaute spoke, clicking furiously at its collar. "Is this translation device working?" Then, slower, "can you understand me?"

He nodded, not quite grasping on the situation at hand. The alien – it had to be that – continued. "Listen, I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for three days so I can get my parents off my back." It explained.

I'm sorry, what? He thought.

Frowning, he voiced his concerns. "Wait, hold on. What are you? And where am I – how am I here?"

The alien smiled then, contempt that he hadn't rejected its proposal just yet. "My name is—"

He guessed that translation device didn't work well because the next sounds didn't seem like words, or a name for that matter.

"— and I come from the planet," some more unintelligible words. "You are in my spaceship."

He shook his head, almost laughing at the impossible situation he was in. He was in space, with an alien who wanted him to pretend to be its boyfriend for three days. Who would believe that?

"Sure," he finally answered. "I'll do it, I'll be your fake boyfriend."

Would it have been anyond else, they probably would be freaking out right now. But he personally didn't care. He was going to do that just because why not? It wasn't like he had much to loose anyway.

You were just sucked up and abducted by a UFO. The alien inside addresses you, “Is this translator working? Listen. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for three days so my parents will get off my back about it.”

Reblog if you’ve made amazing friends online and are grateful for their existence

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.

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.

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.