I'm Mina. I'm 18 and a boy and single. And Egyptian.
I like a lot of things. The two most important ones are avatar (and korra), and people. I like people a lot but sometimes they make me sad.
sometimes i'll get muse and write things. there's a tag for that. sometimes i talk about music. tag for that. i have a nice face i think, so tag for that. yeah.
DFTBA.
‘do you know what it feels like, il hob maa wahda mayitta?
and I had to write one. Here it is:
NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
MA FENYA
BENA LEESI BA MA
HAN YA HA
NENG IN YAMA
PENGUIN NAMA BALA
My Final Draft for my Creative Writing piece is due in a few hours, and I’m currently finishing it up and editing it. I’m gonna post it here when I’m done, and I’d really appreciate it if a few of you would read it and tell me what you think? Constructive criticism welcome, of course. Thanks!
friendlyneighborhooddeliveryman:
holy dicks, that’s useful
((Holy crap yes.))
Printing this out and carrying it around with me because I suck at word choice. ._.
I actually need this right now.
(Source: artandalcohol)
Thank you for wearing a dress today. You - and your outfit - looked absolutely stunning, and it was so refreshing to see a well-dressed girl for once. You were literally the first girl I’ve seen wear a classy dress in a very long time and it made me happy that there are girls in college who still care about their appearance. If I’d had the confidence, I would’ve walked up to you and complimented you, just to let you know you’re appreciated. And beautiful. I hope your day is as lovely as you are!
Sincerely,
Mina.
Late in the spring of my nineteenth year, the Idea was just a seed.
The air was getting warmer and high school had started to wind down, so naturally, nobody was doing anything productive. Freshmen scurried along like the hyperactive mice they are, excited to be Almost-Upperclassmen. Seniors slumped along like zombies, trapped on the cusp of the rest of their lives, and I was un-deader than all the rest.
I was lounging around in the courtyard after school, because I figured surrounding myself with disgustingly pink cherry blossoms and azaleas was better than surrounding myself with the white walls of my bedroom. And anything at all was better than interacting with my overzealous, pugnacious parental units.
“Jake, sit your white ass up on that bench, I have a new band to deflower you with,” came a voice I instantly recognized as Nikhil’s.
The best thing to have when one is un-dead, I discovered, was an Idea. The second best thing to have was a Nikhil.
“I’m not prepared to have my ears vandalized by another of your indie discoveries, Nik,” I said with a sigh.
“No, dude, this one’s all you! Remember that band Ember Island Survivors? They’re back.”
“You’re joking.” I hesitated for a moment, then sat up with a sigh of defeat and snatched the headphones from him. I listened for a moment, then I listened. I indulged in the melodies and harmonies, my old favorite band surging back to my mind in a tidal wave of memories.
“See? The world still has some good in it, my friend. No moping allowed on my watch, not when there’s graduation tomorrow and new music forever,” Nik said.
Nikhil Suresh is my best friend and favorite skinny Indian kid. His religion is sometimes music, sometimes Christian, much to his parents’ chagrin. But he knows frightfully little about the intricacies of human heartbreak.
I yanked the headphones out of my ears. “Nik, she’s gone. Ana’s gone and she took my heart with her and how can I enjoy music without my heart?”
“That is the most depressing bullshit I’ve ever heard. Do white people always get like this after a breakup?”
“Screw you, Nik.”
“That’s against my religion, Jake.”
I don’t like usually like to write if the first muse that comes to mind is the title rather than actual content, but this is a very good title and I could do a lot with it… agh, maybe I’ll save it for Creative Writing class.
I only have the first stanza so far, and it just doesn’t mesh right at the end. Normally I’d scrap this, but I found it rather… appropriate. So, here goes:
Storm Clouds rolling over
Fights are blowing over
to the next line, next rhyme.
For a second it’s sublime;
but it’s fast then its past its prime,
bottled up then someone bursts, the worst
comes to worst, and now you just curse.
Ripped to shreds, rather be dead, that’s a first.
That’s a first.
oooh i really like this
it’s more spoken word than a poem but i haven’t actually said it out loud so… yeah idk but i like this
