“how Did You Get Into Writing” Girl Nobody Gets Into Writing. Writing Shows Up One Day At Your Door

"How would you define love ?"

Love is like stargazing but choosing to look only at the one small star most people don't notice, because to you it is the one that shines the brightest.

Love is like drowning under water but doing it willingly if it means that the one person you care about will be able to breathe a moment longer.

Love is like being in a field of wildflowers but not picking any because you would rather let them grow and watch them bloom from afar rather than hold them close, knowing that they would die.

But love is also all the small things you do every day to help people. It is also noticing the small quirks someone has yet appreciating them even more for their uniqueness instead of judging them for it.

Love can come in many ways, shapes or forms, it can be grand but it can be small. It can be hidden and kept secret, or loud and bold.

Love doesn't have to be perfect or precise, it can be complicated and strange and unexpected, but it is always beautiful.

🎶✨when u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, and publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your favourite follows (positivity is cool)🎶✨

Zombie by The Cranberries

505 by Arctic Monkeys

Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High by Arctic Monkeys

Money, Money, Money by ABBA

The Archer by Taylor Swift

“ For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.

So collapse. Crumble.

This is not your destruction.

This is your birth. ”

Zoe Skylar

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.

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.

I signed up to my school's writing contest and we have to write a 1200 characters text. The theme is about colors.

I can't figure out whether I should write a depressing poem or a fantasy/happy/creative poem.

I know that the teachers will like the depressing one more, but I would have more fun writing something crazy and creative.

I don't know what to do.

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.

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.