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 Jan 2017 Ovi-Odiete
Max Vale
These days we spend so much time,
On the internet.
What we share and what we hide,
We'll never forget.
The old ways of letters and post,
What do all these servers host?
However without it,
The internet.
Would never come into existence!
Follow me on Instagram @maxvalor
 Jan 2017 Ovi-Odiete
Max Vale
I tried so hard,
But I couldn't succeed.
But in my heart,
I know I will succeed.
Just got my test results back , Not good!
 Jan 2017 Ovi-Odiete
Laura Duran
Yesterday.....tomorrow
Happiness........sorrow
Promises..........­broken
Warmth.............frozen

Full heart.........empty shell
Heavens bliss....lonely hell
Future plans......hopes fade
Loves light.....eternal shade

Living a nightmare....Another day dawns
A deafening silence....learn a new song
Anger, self blame.................I finally see
Threw me away..............I'm finally free!
 Jan 2017 Ovi-Odiete
Cedric
An addiction to the color named red,
An affinity to feelings of dread,
Like waterfalls and raindrops, I feel drenched,
Clothed in a gown of crimson red is death.

Hemophilia causes excessive blood loss,
Just by being touched, you bloom like a rose!
Like roses with thorns that bleeds it's color.
To me who's bleeding out, "You're just a pose!"
I scream out with anguish, a quiet pause.
I lay in a pool of ****** dolor...

To me, you're lips are just like spikes and thorns,
With flowery words born from blooming roses,
As if an explosion of gray matter,
Were your poems that made me bleed all-out.
A sonnet of bleeding for various reasons. Dedicated to "someone", I poured out what circles around me, as if my own blood.
How does one describe something that has so much more meaning than anything there has ever been?
I am not able to have one underlying emotion for art.
I am not sure there even is one emotion that i have not faced when
I make, take in, or feel some type of art.
It is everything to me.
"Art is the only way to run away without leaving home."
When I make any piece of artwork, it takes me away,
and I have never had that feeling other than when
I have a paintbrush or pencil between my fingers.
When i need to stop my own little world and get away from everything, I make something.
Art seems to be the only form of communication
I desire to use when showing emotions.
I get anxiety when i have to show so much vulnerability as to do something as simple as /talking/ to someone about my problems.
If I could just show someone my artwork instead of speak,
I would choose that any day.
"She is delightfully chaotic;
a beautiful mess.
Loving her has been a splendid adventure."
I guess in some ways i see art as a person.
The only true love I have ever really felt would be with art.
I have been hurt many times and I have always
turned to art because of it.
Shes always been there for me,
while others have let me down time after time again.
Yet she waits there patiently everyday
until I pick up the sketchbook
and draw.
Found this poem I wrote back in 2013.
That song! That haunting song!
At twenty years of age,
Off his bed he rose
And to his window he went
There she was, seated in the swing
And singing to herself her lullaby.
It was always her favourite.

She lifted her blank eyes and held his
Those eyes sent shivers down his spine.
A ghost she was,
Why wouldn't she leave him be?
Yes, responsible for her death he was
But that was three years ago.

At thirty four, even after marraige
With three beautiful kids,
She still wouldn't leave that swing
Or put a stop to that **** song
He alone heard her
He told no one else about this ghost
But wanted nothing to do with her.

At fifty, she was still at the swing
Singing and swaying in the swing
She still looked sixteen,
But he looked frail.
He had tried to tell her off
But not a single word would she utter to him.
It was a **** gone wrong
A girlfriend in highschool,
Who had been adamant to give away her virtue.
And the overdose had killed her.

At seventy, an heart attack he had,
Right in the yard.
He couldn't breathe
And he couldn't cry for help.
At the brink of death, she finally left her perch
And floated to his dying body.
Only a sentence she whispered,
And it was colder than death itself.

**You were always my first love
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