Take your crayons,
And scribble in colors.
Put them on paper,
Cardboard,
Wallpaper,
Glass.
Do not question light’s reflections.
You are a creator.
Something new has been born
Rip out my eyes
To tell the color of my iris,
Put them under a microscope and zoom in,
What do my cells tell you?
Take me apart
Piece by piece
Break my body down
To its basic components.
What you have there
Is a pile of gore.
It's not me.
You cannot find me in my cells,
Dissect my brain and tell me my personality,
Tell me my memories,
My dreams,
Even if you steal every atom that builds me up,
You'll never have me.
Colors Colors everywhere,
They’re surrounding me
Encompassing you.
My life was also in black and white,
There was wrong
And there was right.
But now with you I see
How narrow minded it was of me.
The world isn’t all dark,
Or all light,
It’s not even gray.
The world is everything!
All mixed and matched in perfection
Sometimes it seems pretty,
Other times it’s sad,
But never has it been bland.
I am still shrouded by the dark
But you are my rainbow.
Ink printed on paper
Aging papers smell
Flat pillows
Fraying blankets
And mother’s voice
Taking me to another world
Once upon a time
In the land of manicured lawns
And drug dealing houses
There lived a child
Of ink and graphite
She's got roses for eyes
And thorns for teeth
She’ll lure you in
With sweet fragrance
Then nibble on you 'til you bleed.
I’ve taken to journaling,
Not as strict as a diary,
It’s a stream of conscious,
A ramble, a collection of words,
That I hope make sense in their order,
But if they don’t it doesn’t really matter.
I hoped that writing would improve my memory
And perhaps my handwriting.
Neither have improved
But it’s something to do.
I have these times when I get the urge to write,
But every story feels wrong.
So I bring out my journal,
And say how the days gone.
I don’t really chronicle events,
More just summarize and ruminate.
My journal won’t tell you what I’ve eaten,
But it will tell you my thoughts,
On the studies of future historians.
And there are times I do tell stories,
Written with more of my voice than a reader could handle,
And random bits of dialogue,
Completely out of character,
That I wish that I’ll remember for later,
But I forget to mark the page,
And it is lost forever.
For I simply don’t have the time
To read my own journal.
Maybe in a few years I’ll pick up the old thing,
And I’ll poke through it and laugh,
“What stupid things I thought about!”
As if they’ll be any less ridiculous then.
And I’ll find the small stories I wrote,
Go “ah what great ideas.”
Then I’ll close the journal up,
Repeat the process again in another few years.
When I was younger I tried to journal,
I wasn’t very good.
You might wonder how one could be bad?
After all I already said I don’t make sense.
My answer to that,
Is I only wrote every few years.
What I wrote the years after the first entry,
Were critiques on said entry,
I go through diaries I received at seven years old,
Look through the entries,
Find my fourteen year old self
Critiquing my seven year old spelling,
My seventeen year old self
Scolding the fourteen year old self
For berating the seven year old self,
Perhaps my twenty year old self
Should comment on the ridiculousness
Of having a conversation with oneself,
Then my twenty five year old self
Can huff at my twenty year old self
And tell them that it’s actually good and fascinating.
The conversation will last until I’m on my deathbed,
Surrounded by completed journals,
And I write my final words,
I hope that they’re something ridiculous too.
Here are some of the articles for the world of Mayvis!
Hi! Thank you for visiting! If you have time and are interested there is now a blog feature on the website where I'm introducing my original characters, it's in the new drop down menu things besides stickers.
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