noctbee

Latest Posts by noctbee

“ For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.

So collapse. Crumble.

This is not your destruction.

This is your birth. ”

Zoe Skylar

I signed up to my school's writing contest and we have to write a 1200 characters text. The theme is about colors.

I can't figure out whether I should write a depressing poem or a fantasy/happy/creative poem.

I know that the teachers will like the depressing one more, but I would have more fun writing something crazy and creative.

I don't know what to do.

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

🎶✨when u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, and publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your favourite follows (positivity is cool)🎶✨

Zombie by The Cranberries

505 by Arctic Monkeys

Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High by Arctic Monkeys

Money, Money, Money by ABBA

The Archer by Taylor Swift

Time

If I were to ask you which feeling is worst,

What would you say?

Would you tell me how hate is such a vile host,

Or would you rather speak of sadness's tragedy?

Perhaps you'd even go as far as considering apathy.

But if I were to answer such a question,

I would say being forgotten.

Have you ever even thought

Of your memory being brought to a stop?

If people didn't recognize you today,

Would that be okay?

For what do humans aim to do,

Building and painting our world gray?

Leaving a trace so their memory won't fade away.

Can you pretend you wouldn't too,

If I threatened to forget you?

Death is far from the scariest,

But rather the thought of turning into nothing again,

For every person's memory

Never lasts for eternity.

You may be a genius, a scientist in all your glory,

But what good is it if you're not committed to history?

So if I were to ask you again what the worst feeling was,

Would you change your answer or accept the reality of time?

Could you write something about fairys?

The Faerie's Ballad

In the soft twinkle of night, or in the choas of the day,

Do not fear, children, for faeries are never far away.

If only you paid closer mind,

You too would see their wings shine.

Dancing in meadows and singing in trees,

Faeries have always been near.

Those delicate beings, full of grace and love,

Sometimes perform spectacles we have grown to ignore.

For who would watch a waterfall and see in it the faeries' orchestra ?

We have long since forgotten the tune of their opera.

Once upon a time, we wished upon them,

The brightest stars to our imagination.

But now in this world full of gray,

Faeries have learnt it is better to hide away.

I'm out of inspiration and bored so if anyone has any ideas/prompts or just wants to request a poem, my ask box is open. You could even just send a random word or a theme for the peom and I'll try to come up with something.

I want to have someone to write letters to

I feel like that would be such a cute thing to do

And they just feel so special

In English, we say "I miss you."

But in poetry, we say...

"I cried again today,

Thinking of all I wanted to say.

I don't get why you decided to throw it all away.

You were my North, my South, my East and West,

Truly my home, but now I can't seem to rest.

I still smile when I remember our happiest memories,

I still laugh at the jokes you made,

Why did you have to go away?

I think of you every night,

Wondering 'how is your life?'

Have you achieved all you told me about,

Or is your head still full of doubts?

I cried again today,

Wishing I could have made you stay,

But you're happier without me

And I have to accept that you became a memory."

Reblog if you’ve made amazing friends online and are grateful for their existence

"How would you define love ?"

Love is like stargazing but choosing to look only at the one small star most people don't notice, because to you it is the one that shines the brightest.

Love is like drowning under water but doing it willingly if it means that the one person you care about will be able to breathe a moment longer.

Love is like being in a field of wildflowers but not picking any because you would rather let them grow and watch them bloom from afar rather than hold them close, knowing that they would die.

But love is also all the small things you do every day to help people. It is also noticing the small quirks someone has yet appreciating them even more for their uniqueness instead of judging them for it.

Love can come in many ways, shapes or forms, it can be grand but it can be small. It can be hidden and kept secret, or loud and bold.

Love doesn't have to be perfect or precise, it can be complicated and strange and unexpected, but it is always beautiful.

La lune solitaire,

Dans le ciel, elle erre seule,

Son éclat, sa douleur.

The lonely moon's light,

In the sky, it wanders alone,

Its glow, its pain.

list 5 things that make you happy, then send this to the askbox of the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! get to know your mutuals and followers! <3

My cats

Listening to music

Writing

Poetry

Art

Your father planted a tree and said, ‘As long as this tree is alive and healthy, so is my son.’ That was 200 years ago. Today, the tree still stands, defying time, but what of the son?

No happy ending this time

The thing about you,

Is that I truly loved you.

And the worst thing about it,

Is that I would forgive you in a heartbeat.

But you won't return, you made it clear.

You and me is a thing of the past,

You don't ever want to be seen near.

Bed time stories are meant to last,

But there is no happy ending for us this time.

I was the villain in your tale,

Yet you were the hero in mine.

I tried to forget you, but to no avail.

I don't want to give up on our fairytale.

Three wishes

If I found a magic lamp, or a fairy,

I already know what I would ask the genie.

I'd wish someone would look at me

Like they are mesmerized

By a sunset or a stary night.

I'd wish someone would care enough

To hold me when days are tough,

Yet still see me as a person,

And not just a burden.

I'd wish someone would help

Paint a smile on my face

And finally bring joy to this place.

But I have no genie, no magic wand or fairy,

No wishes left, no promises kept.

I have no flying carpet or broom,

No way to get to the moon,

So I sit, wide awake, at night,

Hoping it would all be alright.

But at the end of the day,

I'm all alone and you're far away.

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

What the fuck just happened, he thought as he stood in a white room.

One moment he was in his garden, fixing the new table he had built, and the next he was in a seemingly never-ending white space. Was this heaven or something ? Had he died? Or maybe this was some kind of hospital room – could be, the lights there are always so blinding!

"Hello?" He called out, anxiously. "Anyone's there?"

He turned in slow circles, half expecting something to attack him from nowhere.

He jumped as a door opened with a swoosh – he swore there was nothing but white there a moment ago ! Some kind of creature walked in, wearing an astronaute-like combinaison. Could have been a human if not for its sluggish gray skin and mop of tantacles where hair should be. Its unnaturally black eyes didn't help either.

What was this thing? Where was he? Was this a dream? He pinched himself to check ; it hurt.

The alien-monster-astronaute spoke, clicking furiously at its collar. "Is this translation device working?" Then, slower, "can you understand me?"

He nodded, not quite grasping on the situation at hand. The alien – it had to be that – continued. "Listen, I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for three days so I can get my parents off my back." It explained.

I'm sorry, what? He thought.

Frowning, he voiced his concerns. "Wait, hold on. What are you? And where am I – how am I here?"

The alien smiled then, contempt that he hadn't rejected its proposal just yet. "My name is—"

He guessed that translation device didn't work well because the next sounds didn't seem like words, or a name for that matter.

"— and I come from the planet," some more unintelligible words. "You are in my spaceship."

He shook his head, almost laughing at the impossible situation he was in. He was in space, with an alien who wanted him to pretend to be its boyfriend for three days. Who would believe that?

"Sure," he finally answered. "I'll do it, I'll be your fake boyfriend."

Would it have been anyond else, they probably would be freaking out right now. But he personally didn't care. He was going to do that just because why not? It wasn't like he had much to loose anyway.

You were just sucked up and abducted by a UFO. The alien inside addresses you, “Is this translator working? Listen. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for three days so my parents will get off my back about it.”

Found another prompt on pinterest, here's what i wrote

I would like to take some time to appreciate the irony, of a god as old as eternity being mistaken.

If I were to ask you what your thoughts were about Death, the big old guy with the scythe and the creepy cloak, what would you say? That Death brings desperarion and desolation, grief and pain and nothing more. Some might even fear him.

But in this apocalyptic wolrd, things are different, because if all humans die, so does Death.

For what is the Grim Reaper without souls to reap?

Nothing, exacly.

So Death does as best he can, leaving clues, messages and warnings in his trail, hoping to help any poor soul who might look close enough to notice it. They might not be able to see him, but common sense get better as people fight for survival, and gut feelings – Death's indications, really – are often more important.

The survivors have started to realize only now that a higher being watches over them. Is it God or the Saints? No, it's Death itself. But were you to ask them, they would answer you truthfully that the entity protecting them is known as Life.

Ironic, isn't it?

At least Death thinks so, laughing every time he remembers this.

Found this on pinterest a while ago and thought I'd try writing something.

It was raining again.

The girl watched from her window, eyes dazed as she focused on the sounds. There had been a time when she would hope for the message to change, for a • to change into a –. She had learnt over time to stop being delusional; the rain always brought bad news. Today, it was simple: a one word sentence, the same word, over and over, warning her of something she could not escape.

•–• ••– –•

Run.

How was she supposed to run from the rain? To hide from the sky? She had thought it would be a good idea to learn Morse Code, it would have been a great addition to her resume once she would go to college. But she had never thought the rain would drive her crazy. The dip-drip-drop of the water and the clip-clip-clop on her window was slowly making her drown in madness. The chaos of this horrendous symphony was taking over her every thought in a mess of what used to be genius.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.

She hated the rain, she had learned to fear its message for it was never wrong.

To any suicidal followers I may have: This is a sign to not kill yourself. You are loved and the world is special because you are in it. Keep holding on.

-PLEASE REBLOG THIS YOU MAYBE ARE SAVING SOMEONES LIFE

You are special and amazing , If you need to talk or some help send me a dm and I will talk to you.

✨reblog if you're accepting anonymous asks about anything✨

Sixteen

This year, I turned sixteen.

I expected it to be a dream,

But it was nothing like what we see in movies.

I didn't get a party with all my friends,

I didn't sneak out in the end,

I barely got a card from them.

This year, I turned sixteen.

I waited for it my whole life,

Because sixteen is the dream, right?

I look back and I only realize

How wrong I was.

I wish I could go back.

This year, I turned sixteen.

Not even half my friends remembered,

And I feel more lonely than ever.

I wish I could go back.

I wish I could go back to playing all day,

To dressing up instead of worrying about what to say.

I wish I could still look up at my parents,

I wish I still liked myself.

This year, I turned sixteen.

I wish I could still be a kid.

The dream, if you ask me,

Is to turn back into the child I used to be.

Pretty like spring

She was pretty.

Not pretty like a sunset or a painting,

Those were too bright and bold to ressemble her.

No, she was quiet like the night and her voice was melodious like the soft songs of birds in the early morning.

She had eyes the colour of the ocean, yet not quite exactly.

No, her eyes were the colour of a thunderstorm, expressive and powerful.

Her skin glowed in the sun, not perfect, not always smooth, but so beautiful.

Her smile was like a thousand stars, shining so bright even the sun was jealous.

She was a mystery, yet so very magnetic; walking away from her made no sense when her entire being promised an infinity of new beginnings.

She was immensely pretty, but not pretty like the sun or the moon.

She was pretty like spring, like the soft rays of sunshine that melted the winter's snow,

Like the small flowers that grew on every inch of grass and littered every garden.

She was pretty like butterflies and puppies,

The way you could never tear your eyes away.

And she did all that effortlessly.

Late night poetry

I always find I'm most creative when the sun is down and the stars are shining.

I always find I'm the loneliest at night,

But that only gives me topics to write about.

I guess the time between midnight and 2 a.m. is when my thoughts finally make sense.

Its not the blissful ignorance of the day when I shut it out by paying attention to my friends,

Neither is it like the loud jumble of thoughts as I try to sleep.

It's like an ocean comes pouring down, and instead of using the faucets that are my eyes,

It flows evenly, out in the shape of words that express everything.

But I guess it's a shame no one ever noticed,

For late night poems are often the ones that cut too deep.