Random, collated thoughts put to paper through emotion and expressions, and a mind that works it's flow.
Love, Lillian x
x Disclaimer: this is purely my own work. if my lines seem similar to other poems, this is purely coincidental. some poems/boo...
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The colours stain the page, The colours of my memories. They make a beautiful sunrise, Blues and pinks and purples.
Leaving behind that house my parents bought on loan was probably the hardest thing to do, Leaving behind hose memories too.
That house, Was the one I grew up in, The one I knew for seven years of my life as a child.
Now when I go with my family To the in-roads at Green Street, I remember the house And the memories and sunken thoughts.
Years have passed And we had to sell it But still, My heart bleeds And yearns As the colours scatter everywhere On the page.
The ink Bleeds through the page As I colour my thoughts Transferring them to paper
But no one will know what the painting means Or any of the others That stand idly in the room.
No one understands My outlet, my art. No one understands Why I paint my emotions.
If only they saw Life the way I saw Then I wouldn't be standing here Thinking, painting
If people knew how it felt Then why do we write stories? If people knew how it felt, Then why do we compose songs? If people knew how it felt, Then why do we paint on blank canvases?
We know what they're going through and We may let rebel tears roll down our cheeks But we never do feel what hardships They battle through.
They could be in a storm With the waves crashing in a blunder And the lighting and thunder booming loudly As the boat begins to give up,
Sinking to the bottom of the sea Where it becomes an old shop wreck That breathes no more And they feel the water Tightening their airways.
But we wouldn't know how they feel Until we experience it ourselves And that's the saddest thing. Not knowing what others go through
As the bird sits carelessly on an Electricity wire that runs from house to house It jolts and dies From locked up knowledge they never learned
So no one understands My story, my pain, And although it's not as hard As losing someone you'd love
It's still losing a part of you. Giving up something, Losing that part of you forever
That house that stands there, With the big blue door, It holds so many memories, And the place I learnt to draw.
The place I learnt to paint, And express my emotions Through literature, poetry And art.
So I sit at my desk, Painting with the brush. Every stroke has an emotion A carefully placed streak of colour and type.
The ink Bleeds through the page As I colour my thoughts Transferring them to paper
And the colours stain the page, The colours of my memories. They make a beautiful sunrise, Blues and pinks and purples.
As my heart bleeds in envy and sorrow At lost memories Of the past.
