It’s not possible that one would write for no reason, so read because that is the only way that we transfer knowledge from the brain of a writer to a reader, or from a writer to the whole world.
His eyes were hues of the forest, surrounded with dark moss. It was the kind of earthy green that revives the grass after a cruel, unforgiving winter. Interwoven shades hiding the chaotic nature behind. Never before have eyes held such danger and beauty all at once. He was a wild fire: reckless, untamed, yet undeniably captivating.
Avery whispers into the breeze, her eyelids fluttering closed as she breathes in the briny aroma. Scrunching her toes, she feels the softness of the sand, still damp from the retreating tide. She wiggles as a shiver cascades down her spine and her eyes burst open.The sand blurs out in a blissful trance, the shore fading into liquid gold, vivid in the brilliant light. Her pale lips curve upward.
Avery bestows her gaze to the far off horizon, the flaring hues of the sun melting into the sky and ocean like a divine painting. The forever stretching sea is masked with an apricot colour, that beautiful umber flowing into turquoise. Through narrowed eyes she watches as each wave overlaps one another, sending the white bubbling crests descending, masking the shore with the transparent fading water.
The words I compose come from my heart. My stories define who I am and my poems tell of how I feel. My pencil is my paint brush and this blank page is my canvas; when I start painting it is a masterpiece because it holds my ambitions, my passions and my dreams.
We are every colour in the trees, my friends and I. We are the gold and reds that carpet the grass. In every breath the autumn is in us too, this feeling of nature flowing back and forth. It is a time for the dancing of spirits as we walk through the cozy hearth that is the park, that energising earthiness that somehow anchors yet propels.
My umbrella is a gay splash of colour on this sweet grey-scale day, a day when one could feel as if one walked in a fancy silver-screen old movie. My hand curls around the handle that was once part of any old fence post, and the canopy stretches above me as if it were the blossoms of a rainforest.
Jasmine would often describe her baby as frenetic and fractious. 'She was born with a hurricane for a soul, that one,' she would say. But she said it in a loving way with that soft glow in her eyes that only a mother can have for such difficult offspring. She would rock her in the dead of night when she found it impossible to sleep and she would wear her all day long in a baby carrier so that she would be calmed by the body to body contact. She would soothe her with lullaby's and stroke her tiny back and soft hair. She would whisper sweet things in her ears and cover her with kisses. She would love the hurricane right out of that child and replace it with a sweet summer breeze because above all, she was her baby, and she loved her with a power mightier than the wind.
In the soft light of a new day, the brown paper was all the more beautiful for its humbleness.
Her hair flowed down her back like black ink of a tilted piece of parchment. Her eyes were fox-like and had an icy greyish green hue like the first sprouts of plants in the snow.
MR DOUBLE DECKER BERETTA (HIP HOP/RAP LYRIC)
Mr double decker beretta,
Smokin' hot go-getter,
His route master plan,
All based on Shazam,
Spandex perfect fit,
Candle lit landing strip,
Burlap photo map,
X-ray on tap,
Perfect heart,
Perfect soul,
Born outta rock 'n' roll,
Load both barrels,
Aim 'em quick,
Mr double decker beretta,
Smokin' hot go getter.
Street art ain't asking for passing change, but for a permanent shift in the heart of our culture.
The cloakroom was a simple and welcoming place to keep your outer-attire. Up and down the room were stands with pegs radiating outward. When they were full of cloaks they appeared as the gayest of Christmas trees, so welcoming in any season.