BraveWrite, Week 3

September 19th

She fears its gentle hands have found her again. It whispers in her ear all the things she shouldn’t to hear. The truth long gone, her heart long since battered, she welcomes the cold. It hollows her out. Vacant of emotion. It’s too late when she names it. #Depression

 

September 20th

In the state of #jejune, we were all consumed by our fables. We were a unique center whose storms were unlike any other. The Gods aimed for us, small and insignificant though we KNEW different. But then our eyes opened. We wore others’ shoes and heeded our empathy.

 

September 21st

Their trunks, china cabinet, and every nook and cranny served as a #cache for their precious items. The house seemed willing to burst at the seams with their collections. It was a glorified storage unit filled with the sentimental. She worried it would go up in flames

 

September 22nd

The world is full of the #esoteric. It haunts the realms of math and science. It teases everyone. But it belongs to the artists most of all. The ones who draw, paint, compose and write for themselves, hoping some will understand. They bare their hearts for acceptance.

 

September 23rd

Wanna know what I think? she asked all of a sudden.

What? His eyebrows raised above a curious gaze.

I think life is a marinade in which we all #marinate. It’s experiences, people, and choices are all the spices we added, She smiled and nudged him, Don’t you think?

 

September 24th

The clock chimed #twelve in the middle of the night and summoned the witch from her workings. Her feet bounced down the stairs, jostling the book she held in her arms.

Ah, there it is, she said while flipping through the aged pages. Clearing her throat, she began to recite.

 

September 25th

The abyss was #tempting, as always. It called to her in seductive whispers. It threaded its fingers into hers, holding her hand, pulling. Her shoulders drooped in defeat and matched the dark bags under her eyes. The image in the mirror wasn’t her so why continue?

Imaginary Whims

Wish the image in my mind

Could be put on paper

Pristine, crisp

or

Abstract, colourful.

 

Sometimes I succeed with words

But not with pen, pencil, paint

On Canvas

or Paper.

 

The image in my mind

mocks me, taunts me.

It wants out

It wants more

 

But I cannot fulfill its imaginary whims.

And it hurts my soul.

My Poor Tree

I haven’t drawn in years, if I am honest. I used to love drawing, painting, molding clay. It was an amazing thing to create something from the mind, or mimic an existing object/person. Flaws added depth to it though I struggled with that fact.

Being a perfectionist is not great when you want to be creative, and thus I have been hesitant to do anything artistic for a long time (unless it was instructional). Today I decided to pull out a sketch book and pencils, and make something, anything.

It’s simple, but I drew this evergreen tree. It probably sucks, but I am proud of it, because at least it looks how I wanted it to (sort of).

Pencil.Tree.jpg

Art in all its forms bring a beauty to the world that I enjoy soul deep. It is necessary for any creative soul to find their medium or niche in the world to share their imagination, but it doesn’t hurt to dapple in others at the same time.

I have posted a lot of poems, and will continue to do so, but I am also going to be playing with my drawing pencils. Hopefully I will get some paint and canvas soon to fiddle around there, too.

Sorry for the quality of the picture. Cellphones don’t take the greatest photos so I am hoping I can get my digital camera working. Well, it works, but I don’t have the cable required to transfer photos to the computer just yet. Plus I need an SD card to be able to take more than just a couple photos.