~~name~~ Amicable Crayon

~~age~~ 16

~~me~~ ex EDd with a philosophical brain, a lost mind and a perfectionist soul. the true me im beginning to uncover. hehe its in there somewhere...

~~music~~ snow patrol~KT tunstall~the old sound of coldplay~switchfoot~goodcharlotte

some dreams i dream: to be a doctor in africa, to raise a family, and to truly be free from everything that makes us not who we are

Plus to find a desert island. that would be awesome

and eating porridge on the moon whilst watching the world go by.. come on how great would that be?

im new on here : )

where do i start?

je suis une poet. and if the same lil angel could give me her lyrics anytime; i can compose her a song if she so wishes :)

thus if anyone wants to hear more o' my poetry - ask me :) But read Downward Spiral too of thee mookine (i swear i dont have shares in her name!) - to me it is truly remarkable.

And read Lady Domino's too: its so witty and cool

i wrote this one in newark airport USA this summer;

So I'm sitting here in an airport bored
with two hours until departure and
nothing productive to do.

With headphones shoved so deep
into my ears,
I block out the world and the habit
of making every voice identical to
Yours.

This bag full of books will go unread
as comparison discourages me and
makes these words seem
forced, fake, and finished.

Your eyes might take off -
gazes into mine,
but they will not land on this
paper runway of emotion -

I'm sure it would tear.

Body

Starting off in a nude manner

Nothing more, nothing less.

Our fingers and toes untouched

Each hair, nail and eye unique

But bare. No attitude. No colour.

Until the craftwork commences.

Nails become gnawed, tinted, battered.

Each hair is bleached by the sun,

Broken by the brush.

Eyes falter and dwindle.

Hands and feet grow feeble.

Not forgetting the mind:

Tis conditioned and nurtured by humanity.

Bodies once naked are adorned

With expression of the inner self.

The shades and shadows surface

As the body strengthens.

The forms are carved and moulded,

Sliced and bent

To strive for an ideal idyllic; a perfect shape.

Our flaws become our sculpture.

All the work done over the years

Ultimately creates us.

We start life as a blank canvas

With the world as our paintbrush.

And lastly. One based on a thought on the crowded train back from Camden whilst thinking of Shakespeare. As you do.

To be or not to be. I’d rather be a bumble bee.

With a stripy bum and fuzzy tum.

And a sting in my arse for fun.