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we're dead while living. we're living but not breathing we were alive before being born, we grow without growing we see without seeing we hear but not everything we know
A haiku... Robots rule the world Making decisions for us Capturing our brains No longer can we Live freely and humanely Prisoners on Earth What we created
Its marks are left As the future turns into past And the past becomes all but memory. It can be found wearing The gold paint of its author. To every page turned Its sweet, silent voice
Why don't you paint me like I am? Dancing and singing Full of life Always looking for adventure, never looking for trouble With close family and friends by my side Why don't you paint me Like I am
I could say I write because it is an outlet, a way to release anger from a broken past and broken family. I could say I write because my mom was not there, because sometimes I write to convince myself that I don't hate her.
Look up at the sky, what do you see? I see a bird looking down at me. What does it see when it looks at me? Nothing, as I see nothing in me. Why do you not have any hope?
Away in her room, the little maiden sits, Sent there for throwing too many fits. Her brunette locks rest on her broad shoulders and cascade down,
I am a writer A musical writer I write in song in rythmic song my writing has notes my writing may be notes It may be whacked Or out of order but this is my writing
Stop Listen The thrumming of the music Vibrating through your mind Painting a picture no other can see Stroke Erase Your hand moves on its own Making the mind real
The creations from within, are inner expressions of my core self, spilled onto the canvas & Paper. The creations from within, is a tool I use to connect with my higher guidance to guide me through new creative pathways.
So, tell me, now who made this mouth of clay? What mighty being formed you from the dust? The One who watches you by night and day, And hears you every thought in open trust; The Man who takes upon your heavy load,
The brush of life paints a beautiful peice of work depending on how the artist reacts to the changes of the canvis.Using paints better known as emotions the stroke of hands that have seen both death and life within the same year glide with grace.