If I was a singer I think my music style would be similar to the likes of Lorde, Birdy, Tinashe, Sevdaliza, Oh Wonder, Gallant, Tsar B, Lana Del Rey, Frank Ocean, and SZA (if you don’t know any one of these musical artists, I encourage you to search them up). Basically, if I was a singer, my music would be haunted, cryptic—filled with magical sounds and imagery just like theirs.
The Continuation of Group Counselling Day 1 (Short Story)
Another Saturday morning came by, Cora was infront of the sandpaper Group Counselling Building, with her dark skin shining in the sunlight, her tangled hair packed in a petite ponytail, her bleached blue jumpsuit swishing in the wind, her leather messenger bag secured across her chest, and her feet, buried in dirty-white Vans.
I’m afraid that, at this very moment, my ambition is quite unhealthy but necessary because for now my artistry is my only saving grace, my only source of peace—and sometimes, my only source of self-worth (I’ll talk about this more later). But this is why I coined the term—Needy Artistry—as my blog title. My blog title symbolizes who I am at this moment—for as I write this blog post—I have choosen the path of obsession, total and complete absorption in my craft, as I’ve poetically confessed in my prior blog post, This Little Piece (Free-write Poem).
However, a horrible fear of running out of ideas has also emerged from my will to constantly create.
So there I was, seated in the center of a taboo. All of us, forced to reveal what made us special—or freaks some might say.
My support group’s new instructor, Ms. Machett, liked to treat our knacks (rather our ticks) as though they were superpowers. She would smile at our defects and urge us to showcase them to the rest of the group.
This little piece of hope in my hands,
let me hold it for a generous time.
This little piece of passion in my palms,
let me feel it till the day I die.
This little piece of talent in my fingertips,
let me have it till the day it is proven to not be deserved.
The August heat had willed Joshua to tie his hair into a poorly structured man-bun, willed his fair face to be laced with sweat, willed his fairly slim build to be dressed in a white tank top and knee-length cargo. While Genet’s shoulder-length hair retained its curls, her bronze face shined, and her favorite summer dress, blue and white with slits on the sides, complemented her long legs.
The couple were seating on a dusty bench, waiting for the bus that would take them home, dubiously, across from the Dollar store where Joshua had stolen a bag of blue marbles.