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A child’s crayon bent, worn down flakey, smooth she has used it  for all her notebooks
Inspiration has no particular source.  It appears in everything that surrounds us,  the little things that make us stop for a moment because there it is again. That feeling. 
I bled into the pages, Hoping, that maybe they'd bleed back into me.
I couldn’t see Nor did I want to believe Is this really the same man that I once knew? Every moment of my life I never did once cry
The visual communication that's really beautiful, Above all others, is the artwork. Never forget the great and scenic artwork.  I saw the emotion artistic creation of my generation destroyed, How I mourned the painting. Does the painting make you
Sorry it's been almost a decade since I first played you before giving you this.  I'm learning to draw. I can't yet make my drawings lifelike, and it's a shame I can't bring them to life, but I can still make art worth making.  I'm learning to pla
Mr. Sean, you are the coolest person I know. When I met you, your hair had a streak of electric blue and it was the most badass thing I’d ever seen,
I wish I could draw But I pulled the short straw I can explain the woman’s translucent face But others will see her as another race  
I remember drawing masterpieces at only age five; bumpy stick figures with lines for appendages and no noses.
From pen to paper, ink seeps and spreads out, corrupting the sweet innocence of white. A simple line morphs into subtle clouds, then spreads to form a strong and gallant knight.
Looking upon the white void before me An infinite field of endless possibility A blank slate to build any kind of world of my desire I run my hand over the blank sheet of paper that makes me feel free  
Tall, stone and gray, We walk into the dull box-shaped building. Inside looks the same. Where is the color? Where is the art?   A sign reads “Monet”.
Without painting I would be  Stranded in a world Without color.   Without drawing  I am nothing but a segment on a timeline.   Without crafting Time is wasted
All I need is a stick of graphite.  Dark and black as the night sky itself, when no stars shine and the moon hides from the horrors besieging the world.
When it comes to drawing,   moving a utensil across a page.   I could create a masterpiece, but   have the eyes be lopsided.  
Poetic thoughts form onto my blank page
  Another world inside of me That no one else will ever see Mostly it is comforting But in the dark where no one sees It's actually quite lonely..
If the artist cannot find her pen, What is she? Then? A girl? Or, simply a human without a purpose or so the world tells her.
Today I saw her smile break (over again - Hope cracked open and spilling out her eyes to drain away Like the colour in her face) And it hurt just as much as it did the first time
I am not too funny Not delightfully clever I am not beautiful, Being that my face does not inspire poems or ballads My tall lanky frame is not the object of envy When I walk into a room no one stops and stares
With my pencil full of lead,sharp at its head. The line I draw that's a bore,but soon it'll be something more.
When highschool is over and graduation begins, there'll be laughter and joy and faces wth grins. When highschool is over and life offers choices, My words will be heard, my thoughts will have voices.
  The pencil  It lands on the paper, waiting. Waiting for the race to begin; waiting for the picture in its mind to bleed onto the canvas Waiting for it to be caught up by a storm of motivation
A pug who snores and grunts in her sleep, Who doesn't regonize rich from cheap. With a curled tail and a slant to her walking,  And enjoys peering over curtains for people watching.
I have so many people in my life That i adore so much. But the people i perform with Have a special place in my heart. I look at all of their faces as family. Every day i look forward to seeing them
I'm sad, tears down my cheeks.  Walk to my room, the door slides open. His excitment, running, jumping, barking. My smile big, pearly whites showing Jumps in my arms, licks my face
The joy I find when their near The tingling sensations that appears With warm embraces Smiling faces The sound of laughter wafts through the air The glow in my heart for all to see
Happiness can be found in the air or in your hair. Happiness can be heard  in the laughter of company or in the peacefulness of your country. Happiness can be felt in your heart or on your skin.
Nimble fingers, busy hands- A guilty head tilt off to the right  As delicate lines kiss the page. She spends her imaginary free time in a world of her own. Armed with a pencil,
this self mutilation is getting out of hand every night i break down i know i cant stand to stay here much longer, im am beaten and damned to rot away slowly with nothing in hand  
Here's what keeps this soul goingHere's what makes
Sometimes life's problems seem to inflame. This is my cue to draw instead of being in pain.   To jump into the world my mind creates
Drag an eraser through your tears until the wet trails have all but disappeared A wooden pencil shall draw your lips up into a smile And paints may drop all sorts of bright colors of all shades and tints But not even a million Could blot out the
I was a child (more than I am now) when my grandmother shared with me the world. She’d get mail, like all adults tend to, and leave the blank envelopes for weekends.
There’s a picture In the yearbook
A sweep of the armA flick of the wrist,Bold lines thatSpeak life into
Being an aspie can be a source of misery or a source of pride, it’s all in the bearer’s perception. “What’s an aspie?” you might ask. It’s a term for someone who bears the rigorous condition of aspergers.
When I was seventeen in early January of my junior year in high school I picked up a pencil and drew something out of boredom  a doodle of a girl with a bandana in her hair smiling at the sky
People are unpredictable. If you think they are who they say they are, then you're wrong from the start. You can only know somebody, if you truly know their heart. But how will you know that if they cover up their scars,
Where do my words begin? My world lives in a pen And when I write, it all comes out And on the paper, my world is sent But what is my writing all about? About my life, my love, my friends
I love writing poems it allows me to express myself, i can write about foam and make it symbolic for something else Theres much you can do when you have imagination, you can write one too
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