Under the moons furry glow,
tears fall and slip into beautiful dreams
of sunshine and happiness;
of handsome heroes from novels
and fat red cheeked babies
cooing on blankets.
Beautiful words inspire me.
To be a better person. To have hope that things will get better. That the morning will come and banish the night.
Beautiful words fill my soul. I breathe them in. They tickle my nostrils and line my heart.
They help repair the wall I’ve built over the years to protect myself from the world.
Beautiful words are my friends. A writer needs beautiful words.
The world needs more beautiful words.
Nickname and its significance:
Main story goal:
Ghosts from the past:
Views on love:
He character relates to others:
Hobbies, interests, leisure activities:
Please feel free to share with your writing group.
Night is a jungle. The darkness in my room meets the darkness in my mind. A secret door is opened and all manner of horrors released to roam free. Memories all distorted that want to haunt me.
A giant spider with hairy legs looms over, trying to catch me; his intention is to eat me or worse.
A dark room, or maybe it’s a cave that would give Tim Burton nightmares, rises up. I run away but something is behind me. Other people are around and they run screaming. I’m scared to look behind me, in case it’s worse than my imagination.
Then I wake up in a pool of sweat and look at the street light coming through the gap at the side of the curtains and say to myself, it will be alright, just a dream, it’s not real. But it felt that way. I can still feel hot breath on the back of my neck and I shiver.
I’m forced to sit up, and reach the miles over the gap between the bed and the table to fumble for the light switch. When I finally locate it and flick it with my thumb, the bright artificial light of goodness blinds me with 50 watts of electricity. I curse, but I don’t really mind since the light has saved me from the dark.
The light has banished them back, back to the crevices of my mind, behind closed doors that no one sees.
But patiently they wait, menacing, because they know, night will fall, like it does every night, then they, again, will have their way, lurking, roaming, across the landscape, free.
Words (c) 2014.
I am a writer. Words are my life. Thoughts are my dreams. Letters are my prayers.
I care not about avarice, nor your petty problems and ugly tongue.
My concern is the sun and moon, the ebb and flow, the wind and tide. The seasons drifting by as my pen scratches across the paper and my fingers dance across the keyboard.
Beautiful words and thoughts fill my heart as air fills my lungs with life. I bathe in them like salty ocean spray and embrace the happiness they give. The music of words fills my ears like a Vivaldi symphony and make my heart want to sing out loud.
Words are a part of me. An old friend. A new enemy. Every day is a struggle with shadows to find the perfect meaning to express a sea of emotion with only the word.
Poem (c) Olivia Brown 2014.
Pink is happiness
Pink is sugary sweet fairy floss that clings to my teeth and keeps the dentist in business.
Pink is a dainty flower, bursting into life at the first soft breeze of spring.
Pink is a butterfly gently flapping its wings, as it flies toward the sun
Pink is strawberries, watermelon, French macarons, sorbet on a sizzling summer eve, sweet grapes.
Pink is love,
Pink is laughter,
Pink is life.
Words and photo (c) 2014.