United States

The either silent or way-too-hyper-to-function theatre kid
ISFP/Enneagram 4
DIY pants fanatic
Aren't we all pretty bizarre?
Oranges deserve more hype
We all long to be understood.

Message from Writer


"Be messy and complicated and afraid and show up anyway."
-Glennon Doyle Melton

"The trees are filled with memories of the feelings never told."
-The Paper Kites, "Bloom"

The names left behind:
(a_myriad_of_stars07 and sun_is_still_shining)
I see a myriad of stars, for I know the sun is still shining. My eyes are now wide open.


June 22, 2020


A small white canvas sits alone 
Still to be painted, still to be sold 
Ethereal tones, unshaped by man 
Pure until the next day began 
When small fingerprints traced her corners 
Painting with purples her once white face 
Thumbprints pressed themselves into the canvas 
Creating impressions of beauty and grace 
A thick black brush dipped in blues 
Stroked her remaining space 
covering up her original feathers 
and leaving stars in their place 
The painting is happily put up for sale 
But she stands out in the crowd 
They all sell pink plastic paper 
And fingerprints are not allowed 
Hundreds of hands rip and tear her figure 
And pull the colors from her frame 
Disfiguring the hues that became her soul 
and then throw the disaster into flames 
The small white canvas sits alone 
Burned to the core and broken down 
the colors were gone, so was her frame 
Her identity was gone, so what could remain? 
Her stars were gone 
Her blues burned to black 
The hands that had painted her disappeared in a snap 
She succumbed to the ashes 
That the people painted her into 
Just a burned canvas 
Unwanted, unloved, adieu 
A lone figure stepped by the fire 
Noting the ashes spread around 
He gathered the remains into a pile 
leaving no particle unfound 
These large golden hands grasped her dust 
and held her in a gentle embrace 
Seeing the once beautiful picture  
He wiped the dirt from her face 
He pulled out a stand, a brush, and a pot 
And carefully set down her dust 
He painted her particles on a brand new canvas 
Creating gold streaks along with her rust 
The hues and fingerprints reincarnated 
As did the wrinkles and tears 
But they faded against her white background 
Which he lovingly left bare 
She became a golden horizon sprinkled with stars 
And green hills bursting with life 
Where under a tree, a dark-haired girl was singing 
Undaunted by the scars of strife 
The canvas sat in the artist's hands 
Too ethereal to be sold 
He hung her where he could always see her 
In a frame of glittering gold 
He gazed upon her every day 
Noting her beautiful majesties 
Seeing her colors and white canvas 
That were purified in her tragedies 
With his gentle, unwavering grace 
The artist's hands had known 
She was a beautiful, priceless masterpiece 
Who never sat alone 
This is probably the piece I've written that I'm most proud of (so far).
God is painting all of us into masterpieces, even when we can't see the artist's hand.


See History
  • June 22, 2020 - 11:14am (Now Viewing)

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  • sunny.v

    oh? “ She became a golden horizon sprinkled with stars / And green hills bursting with life “ the absolute beauty exuded. wow. lovely piece, and oh so so so pretty! awesome work!

    11 months ago
  • Anne Blackwood

    Ugh, I just love this.
    Replying: You're welcome! And thank you!!

    11 months ago