So! I'm a young artist that loves to draw and scetch so I decided to create an account only for art! It's cliché and everyone's done it already, but I don't mind. Now I have a way to document my growth and see how my art evolves and if you enjoy it and manage to not get annoyed, please stick around! #art#amateur#scetch#doodles
14 ème combat amateur, défaite, même si normalement ça aurait dû être une victoire
Pour moi c'est mon plus beau combat
Belle soirée avec la victoire de notre boxeur pro Hélène Lascombe 💪
Photographe : Flash'line
'Til Death Do Us Part (Pt.2)
Of A Metaphorical Friend 🖤 Do you have one?
So many regrets, tantrums, mistakes. So many missed opportunities. So much damage I can never take back. She’s the reason I toss and turn at night for hours before I can fall asleep. She keeps me alert: thinking until my stomach hurts. She’s the reason I want to stay asleep forever because my dreams offer the escape from reality that I adore.
She’s the reason I want to die. She makes me want to hurt myself because I deserve it. She makes me pull my hair out until my scalp feels numb. She makes me scratch and tear at my flesh until it rises and bleeds. Poke in dents, holes to be set free. She makes me attack myself just out of need, each bruise and drop another token of glee. Pain endlessly.
She stops me because she says that people will say I do it for attention. That I’ll be lumped together with those who depend on sympathy for their ego, to add that pretty, aesthetic, misunderstood vibe to their feed.
She tells me that I’ll become another statistic of those made weak, quote society.
She tells me that I’m stupid because people die everyday without wanting to and here I am taking it for granted. People die so that we don’t have to. Yet we think we have to.
She tells me that I’m selfish and don’t think about my loved ones. That the sight of my death will not be well discovered by my brother. He'll cry to my mother. It'll destroy father. Grandparents will shake with the weight of a last goodbye to their granddaughter. Friends will wonder why, where it went so wrong.
She tells me that outside of my coffin, people will recite what a failure I was. How I lost at life. How the coldness of my hands is no different from when I was alive.
You don’t want that, she says, so wait. You’ll make them understand.
She’s the fantasy in my books, the fake realities in my favorite shows and movies, the avatars in my games, the words I write down in my notebooks.
She makes me want to go home even when I’m already there. She makes me feel empty even when everything’s well.
She’s the inspiration behind my prayers for a better tomorrow.
My friend, she makes me so tired. It's her and I until we die.
‘Til Death Do Us Part (Pt.1)
Of A Metaphorical Friend 🖤 Do you have one?
My friend, she brings out the worst in me.
I try my best to keep her at bay and for the most part it works. Yet sometimes people encourage her to pop up and wreak havoc on my soul. They excite her. They ignite her. Then they blame me for the behavior she provokes. You don’t know me, leave her alone. It’s such a blow to the heart. At least by this point I thought you would’ve known.
My friend, she makes me want to explode. She’s the ringing in my ears, my distant look, the stiffness in my pose. She makes me feel like I’m stuck in a cage of air and I can’t even break out of it because the bars aren’t there. She makes the pressure rise in my chest, and my body shake and gasp for breath.
She leaves me restless, with no idea how to release the turmoil she builds in me. She makes my head bubble intensely, my thoughts to frantically tear at the stability of my mind. She’s a disturbance to my peace, and with her at my side I’m never at ease.
My friend likes to tell me lies. She tells me that everyone is out to get me and to stay away from their wandering eyes. She tells me of my imperfections and how they will make me stand out in a crowd: the ugliest, the stupidest, the lonely piece of trash. She tells me that going where there’s others is a mistake. She tells me not to bother because they’re not my friends, even though they said something nice the other day. She makes me shut myself up, isolate, and push people away. They don’t like me, that’s what she said. The only friend I have is her.
She keeps me from doing things by making me feel insecure. She makes me say I don’t want things when I do and she makes me stop liking things that I used to. She makes me not trust. She makes me lash out at the people around me because she leaves me defensive and irritable from her abuse. She’s the glare in my eyes, the upside down smile, the tears when I see you pass by. I love you, I swear. Sorry for acting like I don’t care. -continued-
"The Loneliest Swing"
At night all alone stood the swing.
A fitting piece to the park blanketed with empty darkness. The park as attractive as a void where all the lively things go to die. There was I.
I can't help feeling so defeated at times. No matter how hard I try. From all the effort I put out, nothing is ever put back into these yearning hungers of mine. It always ends up not being enough. No way to fill my gauge of happiness, but with the silver mercury that the moon hands to me. Instead the gauge overflows with that liquid misery. Driven with insanity, everything intoxicates me.
I feel empty inside. Sad to have everything look so meaningless, so small. To be happy one second then realize that I was wrong all along. That it was a lie I decided to try out because on everyone else it looks fine. On me the lie is a mantle that chokes my heart tight.
I can't breathe. And wherever I am I want to leave. Into the solace of a place as dark as the thoughts I carry within me. As empty as the gap left between them and me.
I have to understand that it shouldn't hurt, that I should let it be.
At night I realized alone is what some of us are always meant to be. -
Push me as hard as you can, I want to fly high.
I could do it all by myself but I won't say no to you for wanting to try.
Your hands on the small of my back aren't light.
I feel a steadiness, a force that makes my heart feel more than alright.
Leave me swinging, fingertips just at the edge of the sky.
I can do this all on my own, I am fine.
Let me remember your grip on my waist, the swing’s whine.
Don't worry about me.
It's okay if you have to say goodbye.
“Film of Distortion”
There's a film keeping me from seeing the reality of this situation.
You say to look out and admire the nature outside of the window. You say it will lull my racing thoughts.
Instead, I see the footprints on crunched leaves and wonder who they belong to. What they were running from, what they were running to.
I see the bark of a tree and think about how many hands have leaned against it. What they were up to.
I see the off duty streetlights and wonder what things they have witnessed in the nighttime.
I see the park and think about how many children go back, realizing they're no longer children and reflecting on adventures from the past.
I see the convent and the church. And I remember these dreams, these memories. They're so fuzzy I get this anxious pacing in my bloodstream. But these faints recollections have some sort of importance of me. I don't know why. It's like a puzzle with missing pieces.
Then I get hit by all the puzzles in my brain. They strain me every day. My heart goes wild and I can't help it. I can't control the watery breathing in my chest, or this restlessness I get.
You tell me to look out the window and the opportunity it holds. To live in the moment and forget.
But look at what I just did instead.
I looked through a film of distortion.
"Escape of the Lonely"
In my dreams I take advantage of all of the fantasies that invade my mind.
Those that in real time I can never seem to find.
Even when I'm running or hiding it's a feeling so divine because I have a purpose unlike my daily life.
If in my dream I can express the true desires of my mind, can you blame me for not wanting to let go?
Sometimes they leave me paralyzed.
They set my heart running, my thoughts racing for hours at a time.
They leave me crying.
But they have me feeling something. And that's all I want sometimes.
My heart craves excitement.
My mind craves adventure.
My soul craves fulfillment, a way to unwind.
I long for a mission like the ones that lonely characters in books always seem to find.
A way to leave this maddening reality behind.
Something special for this blue heart of mine.
Dreams are my escape, my tripping sun ray.
Forgive me for letting them take my emptiness away.
Take me to the spot where unhappiness drowns.
Where the water suffocates dark thoughts.
I want to wear a cold aqua crown.
Let me just see some black and white dots.
I want to go down, heavy in pain.
Lightly I want to float up.
Let me relieve the ache in my breath.
Purifying water running through my lungs.
Inspired by the African proverb quoted in the introduction. Written about a tree but not really 🍃 -
“The axe forgets, but the tree remembers." -
The bark of a tree, rough to the touch, is a layer of protection against the outside world and all the mindless harm it loves to cause. Run your hand gently against its surface and you will feel the coarse wood scratching against your palm. No pain, just the sensation of a splintered soul. Could you blame it? Everything leaves it with a need to tuck its heart away and cover it with a form of defense.
You only like the tree for your convenience. For the life it brings you, or for the pleasure it causes your eyes when it meets the standards of what you claim to be beauty. Do not look at the tree as ugly, for its trunk is a mirage of the pain it carries. Instead take a look at the axe. The axe that swings in the air, sharply cutting through the sky, and promptly smacking against the tree. Then the senseless pride that follows it. Because hurting without motive is beautiful.
Cutting into the tree is good, approved by the outside world. More acclaimed when it results in the chopping of the tree. Even better when it leads to its roots being pulled out. Just leaving the tree in fragments, ripped atop the soil. A round of applause is deserved. Throw. Some. Roses. Since you really like those. For the encore.
The killing of a tree is not beautiful. The axe will go ahead and slice as much as it pleases, leaving behind a miserable membrant of the once splendid tree. And it forgets. It forgets its path of destruction. It has its fun, cutting down what it does not like. And it leaves as if nothing ever happened. Everything is okay though it’s really not.
It’s not okay because the tree remembers. And the tree cries upon the soil watering itself for the ultimate vengeance. Its roots will cement themselves yet again, and its trunk will become stronger than ever before. The blooms on its head will rival the ones in your garden rows. Once the rest of the world is suffering, the tree will remain. Alone but well deserved.
And though you wish for happiness your dreams can never grow.
In the garden it's clear that only the prettiest flowers get to show.
From your roots you are plucked out and thrown.
Left on the pavement torn.
Ready to be stepped on. -
The hand was gentle at first.
It shared its own dreams with a glow.
Then it smiled so warmly, capturing you in a moment so slow.
Like always, you thought:
This is the one, we can help each other grow.
The magic I have, oh it knows.
You didn't even realize that the smile was just for show and there away you'd blow.
Your own wishes scattered with a throw.
And the hand so happy on its own path continued to go.
You're told that you're special, that compared to how you see yourself there's a whole lot more.
Yet you always end up drained out on the floor. *Repost*