me - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The Me I Want To Be
The me that I am cowers behind her broken interior,
Terrified to look at herself in the mirror.
For she is scared that what she might see,
Is not who she wants to be.
So she surrenders herself to the chains of her sorrow,
And lies down to weep for the pain of tomorrow.
The me I want be is not afraid to plant her foot down,
And stand her ground.
She isn’t afraid to look herself in the eye,
And say, “Quit believing this lie!”
She may have enemies, but at least she stood up for something.
Her presence gives people courage to rise up out of nothing.
She doesn’t care what people think,
She trusts in God, believing that he will work out every kink.
The me I want to be, is not so far away,
If I ask God for the courage to break out of my fear, and for the strength never to stray.
There isn't a page for people to describe themselves. Sometimes describing yourself can be the hardest of all. You don't view yourself the same way as others view you. Or maybe you do and just don't realise it. So this is a page for you to describe how you think you are. Or you can just completely make it up. Its up to you. Everybody is different so don't be shy.
I sat quietly in the classroom while others around me chatted loudly, waiting for the bell to ring signaling the beginning of class. All the conversations blurred together, creating a bubble of white noise around me. My hazel eyes flew across the pages of my book, soaking in every word while my ears tuned out the commotion nearby.
I wished I could have been talking to someone, a friend or acquaintance to tell about the crazy things that happened last period. But everyone already had their friends, and there was no need to try to make new ones. So I sat alone.
All of a sudden, a voice broke through the noise. "Hey, you look nice today," I looked up to see the smiling face of my classmate, ready to talk to me.
Although she didn't know it, she'd made my day. She had no way of knowing that as all I ever wanted was someone to talk to.
I am an alien. I have purple and green skin and eyeballs that stretch from my chin to my forehead. My mouth is on my arm, and my nose is on my foot. I have three fingers on each hand, except for my eighth arm: that one has four fingers. I got teased relentlessly for that in alien elementary school, but as you get older people become more accepting. I believe in equality for all alien races except for the pigs and the broccolis. They taste too good.
There's a party tonight and I'm not ready. I have spent my time rehearsing every possible conversation from all angles knowing none of them will ever happen. Whatever I dream up will stay just that, a fantasy. But even knowing that I'm drawn to do it anyway, but then creating fiction is what I do. I prefer the constructed world with the well crafted plot, the anarchy all part of a greater scheme to build a climax before the resolution. At least life has similarities to fiction, it's what you make it. The evening isn't written yet, it's blank like a fresh page. My mate will swing by in half an hour, we'll go in his parents Nissan Micra, so manly. But whatever the evening brings, good or bad, I'll have more life experience to bring to my art and that can only make it better.
You Can’t Cage Me
You can’t cage me
My limitations are boundless
My energy and vibrations are endless, till death
I have a conquering spirit, so
I rise and soar above the storms of life like an eagle
You can’t cage me
I have the power to transform like a butterfly
Hope that neither fail, falter or dies
I will run and never be weary
And I will walk and not faint
I will soar like an eagle
You can’t cage me
I will be down but never out
Weak, but I won’t fall or be bound
I get confused but not lost
Goodness and peace reigns in my heart
I will soar like an eagle
You can’t cage me
My victory is won
The Lord is my strength and my song
I am an inspiration to the weak
Renewed hope for the needy and meek
I don’t fear adversities
You can’t clip my wings
I will soar like an eagle
You can’t cage me
The girl in the mirror looks a lot like me. She has got long dark hair like me; but her eyes don't look like mine. Mine are innocent and scared, but hers are cold, cruel and fearless. She looks stronger than me, and she has a gun tucked in her belt. She doesn't wear clothes to hide her scars. Her shirt doesn't cover her scarred arms because she isn't scared anymore to show her damaged skin. It is hard to accept that this girl is me, but this is who I need to be now. This is the reality, and I have dealt with harder and worse realities in these past few days. So I don't mind accepting the new me as long as I can still hope that somewhere inside her still lies the old me.
I'm fresh off the graveyard shift at the warehouse and a full day of college stretches ahead of me. I wrap my fingers around a hot cup and take a sip of double espresso. It's a cruel irony that the only way I can pay for tuition stops me from focusing in class. Even jacked up on caffeine I can hardly say my brain functioning is anywhere close to optimal. By the time 4:30pm get's here I'll be ready to collapse into bed. Then I'll be up again at 9pm and off to work. There's no wifi there but I can write on my laptop in my breaks and often there are a few hours down time when nothing needs the forklift.
I used to ponder what made myself so much different than the rest of you. Maybe it was my weight, or my hair. Is it my make-up? Yes, that must be it! I fought for years to find the perfect combination of imperfections, but there were just too many variables. But today I dropped the brush and took off the corset... You are simply a cup of tea, while I'm the whole bottle of champaign.
I am the river that runs deep
The fountain that you seek
I am the scripture that you read
The harvest that you reap
I am the knowledge that you crave
The wisdom revealed… yet frail
I am the power you unfold
The story untold
I am Strong, Unfettered, Focused and Free
Sharp, Spontaneous, Exceptional
Written by: Charmaine Wallace
All I want to be is normal. You know why? Because everyone wants to be "different," so being normal is different, and different has become normal.
She enters the room like she's famous, strutting to her desk. Everyone looks at her, giving her dirty looks, but me. She looks around the room and we lock eyes. Her eyes are pine green, but as deep as the ocean with her isolation and sadness. Everyone hated her because she was different. I did the opposite, I loved her because she was different. She flaunted her own style her own way, and that's why everyone hated her. It was a stupid reason, I know, by they all are stupid. This is the dumb class, after all. I'm only here because I don't want to be in the smarter classes, they're too much work and the best of you is expected every day. In the lower classes, you're expected to achieve less than "the best." That's one of the only things we share in common.
She was so beautiful with her blond hair with blue highlights tumbling down her shoulders, and her white and black striped shirt with the Eiffel tower on it, saying "Belles femmes," with her intentionally ripped jeans, and her white Converse, which she colored in purple and hot pink. There was nothing else to say, other than she was beautiful. Although, everyone hated her, she was pretty nice. I feel bad for her, she's too nice of a person to be hated on. No one deserves that much of shunning, not even a murderer. She did nothing wrong, except be beautiful. Everyone was just jealous of her, she was too perfect, so they hated her. She smiled at me with gratefulness, like I had done the impossible for her, and she liked that. Her smile was like seeing the sun for the first time, like a sweet glass of lemonade on a hot summer day, like seeing a rainbow after a long rainy day. She was perfect.
I am a strand of wheat in the vastness of the prairies. My colours are as muted as those around me, allowing me to hide in plain sight. With my primate brain I can only ever truly love the friends and family in my small circle, that's just the way we're wired. Yet I still hurt to hear of pain around the world, empathy does not allow me to switch off. I want to reach out, to heal, to bring light where there is dark. But I am a herd animal at heart - just a strand of wheat in the vastness of the prairies and however feeble or shallow my roots are, I need them.
I am who I want to be, and nothing anyone says will persuade me otherwise. I don't want to be 'normal', I want to be who I am. I want to be me.
"I get the urge to take my chances when I know I shouldn’t speak." I can think of no truer words pertaining to me. I’m not afraid to bear my teeth and bark at a moment that dares to let another second go by without my thoughts being heard. The art of moving one’s mouth is reserved for the brash and brazen; not to mention the stupid. The so very very stupid.
I walk by the full-length hall mirror, and for the first time I don’t recognize me. Who is that over-weight woman and why is she following me? I turn and face her head-on. She turns and faces me. I cross my arms defensively, and so does she. Moving closer I looked into her eyes and to my shock, I recognized myself looking back at me. Could this mirror version of me have devoured the slender, beautiful me I imagine myself to be?
I step closer still, examining my eyes. I see a spark, a youthfulness, and beauty. I inhale as I take in this new vision of me. Is she overweight or just curvy? Her white hair streaked with red highlights is rather flattering. Her clothes hug her curves and her closet is filled with a wide spectrum of color. I raise my eyebrows and smile. Yes, there I am. Raising my chin, I pull back my shoulders, and look myself straight in the eyes. That spark in my eyes, I think it’s more of a sparkle. My life is on fire and I’m young at heart and ready for more. This is me.
It is often incredibly difficult to describe oneself, for it is nearly impossible to write an accurate description. For example, if I were to describe my friend, I would use words such as "wonderful" and "loyal" and "talented". However, she might use words such as "short" or "annoying" or "pointless". Everybody views themselves differently than those around them, so no one can truly be described by anything other than their outward appearances. I can tell you for a fact that my hair is brown, but it is up for the writer to decide whether it is a soft, chestnut brown or the color of drying dirt with flecks of sand.
My gaze is caught to the reflection in the glass door beside me, and as I stared, so did she. This girl doesn't look like me, though she is supposed to. She is pale, with dark hair and dark eyes. Everything about her is dark. Her expression, her furrowed brows, her lips... I am more the opposite, I am kind, aren't I supposed to look like someone who is? I am supposed to look bright, without a devilish resting face. My eyes are supposed to express happiness, although they rather express hatred. People simply don't look who they are. If people see me this way, how would they ever know who I really am? How is anybody supposed to get to know the real me, if society judges the picture before reading the text?
Me. Who am I? One wouldn't think too hard for a question as simple as that. You either know who you are or you don't. Now, what is the question really asking? I take my gaze away from the window and down the rows of people in the class room, and thats when realization occurs, nobody here is really seeing themselves. Who are they? I imagine myself in the perspective of the boy, John, in front of me. He's looking at his friend, Peter, and laughing at whatever he had said. John see's what his friend looks like, and he also sees the twenty or so people around him, and behind him, he would see me. But he doesn't see himself, he doesn't see the way he smiles and the way his eyes crinkle when he does. His friend, Peter, sees it, but Peter doesn't see that when he talks, his lips are pulled up crookedly on one side. Everybody all see the same amount of people around them, but not one of them can see themselves. Not even I. The girl in the front of the room could turn and look around at the class of people before her and see me as one of them, she would see another girl sitting at the back row. Who am I? I am how I see them, and I see the others as they see me. Just another one. We're all not so different after all. Whilst my eyes were still fixated on her, I heard, "Look at this moon necklace I brought. I thought it was a great symbol for me because the moon is like, the greatest force in the universe." ...Okay, maybe a little different.
Generally she came off as boring, walking into a room with her head down looking at the world through her dirty blonde hair. Usually her sparkling dark blue eyes would be fixed on something other then the teacher, while she day dreamed in the middle of class of an exciting and spontaneous life of adventure.
"The things that make me different are the things that make me."
"Don't tell me what parts of me you 'like' because I won't change. I am an entire person. I am spiritual. I am a person of deep faith. I love science and studied evolution. I can work with creationism and Darwinism. I love the music of John Lennon and I can 'Imagine' his dream. I have no love for religion, but for the God who is love I have absolute adoration, respect and devotion. My writing is my art, I hope to help; yet like all art it may not 'speak' to everyone's tastes. That's OK, it's just art. I adore Bob Marley; I yearn for world peace and true freedom for all. I am an idealist and a pragmatist. I believe in 'emancipating ourselves from mental slavery,' and will always strive to be a free thinker. Hello. This is me."
They define me without knowing my definition.