My overproductive mind wants to *explode*

I drew this out of random creativity one day.
{In my sketchbook}
hope you like it :}}



sorry if it's barely readable, its lyrics from Heartache Every Moment obviously.

I'm officially making this journal my poetry journal. here is another one of my original poems:

 

Wasteland

The screams make my eyes bulge.

I need to go to my safe place

My wasteland.

I leave the house, not even mentioning I’m leaving.

They don’t even notice.

To my “wasteland” I retreat

from the battle that’s not mine

But has always belonged to me.

Finally escaped, walking down the faded grey road

Stepping on the cracks

As if my feet would make the pieces jump intact again.

Cutting through their yards, I feel paranoid

That they will open their doors and scream an unheeded warning.

As I trudge through the brown muck and dead, scratchy weeds

As always, I’m off in my own mind

Thinking of that guy in that one band that’s really hot.

I’m always fantasizing about far off truths, blatantly false.

Finally I make it through the marshes

Into a heavenly clearing full of nothingness.

Wasteland was waiting for my arrival.

Wild trees are on the fringe of the misshapen area.

Like I’m on the fringe of reality.

The ground is unleveled, clay-looking mud

With rainbow-tinted water flowing through eroded creek beds.

The ground is covered with rustic rocks

Sandstone, limestone, I’m not sure.

All I know is that it glitters in the sunset

And breaks off in soft, fragile layers.

This place wasn’t here a few years ago.

It used to be part of the woods, I think.

All I know is that it became my refuge

Ever since I discovered it a year ago.

Gently plopping down on a big flat dry rock, I relax

Absorbing the feel of being in a foreign place

That feels so much like home.

With my legs dangling over the edge of a miniature cliff

I begin to pick at the weeds

And study everything around me.

I notice the vegetation here is so young.

There are trees as tall as me

With trunks as thick as my wrist.

Some trees are dressed in deep mahogany leaves.

Others have baby lime green leaves.

The weeds are a variety of colors.

Most a dead yellow

Few bright green

Some a metallic pink.

When I’m alone

Sitting in wasteland

Drinking a root-beer Faygo

Listening to some good old 90s pop

I feel at home.

I feel so in tune with nature

That I feel like I’m painted into the ground

Or that I could sink into the trees.

I’m safe here

In wasteland.

This is my first ramble. (as I like to call my thoughts)  so...im a 16 yr old, green-eyed, brunette female. &&..i guess this is my journal.

Today's entry I would like to dedicate to my Opa. I am currently in Jacksonville, FL. for his funeral thursday. {Opa is German for Grandpa, but he's not German, he's American. y Oma is German though. It doesn't sound right saying Oma & Grandpa, so...}

This is a poem I made in my English class a while back, its criteria was to be a section of remembered things, & a section of forgotten things. It's personal, sentimental, & sad, so...here goes:
 

Remembered, Forgotten

I remember the sound of my Opa’s voice.

I remember the feel of wet, heavy rusty dirt of North Carolina.

I remember the weird smell of those one yellow flowers.

I remember eating key lime pie watching spongebob.

I remember lying on the vent, cool air rushing out.

I remember the smell of rotten tomatoes from the garden.

I remember home-made fruit preserves my Oma made.

I remember Rusty eating my Bit-O-Honeys’ over-night & getting sick.

I remember feeding the chickens blades of grass, & Oma yelling at my sister & me.

I forgot what we did all day, lazing around.

I forgot to feel comfortable, be myself, and to be carefree.

I forgot to enjoy the hot weather. Now I hate summer; summer is my demise.

I forgot the taste of the dried fruit in the sun.

I forgot the feeling of being little and fearless.

I forgot to turn the hose back off. “righty-tighty, lefty-loosey”

I forgot all the memories I would cherish now, back when I was too young to remember.

I forgot to say goodbye.

This is probably WAY more special to me than anyone else because of the specific smells, sounds, textures., experiences.
I hope it made you think and remember times with your loved ones when you were little.

-Marissa Karin