Francis-Dawson

The glass is always half-full.

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Going Through the Motions by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Going Through the Motions

Today you said you loved me. I wanted to tell you that I didn't believe you. But instead I said I love you, too. And wondered if I'd meant it. Nowadays things hurt that didn't use to. I see that you aren't perfect like I thought. You have bad manners, and use your shirt as a Kleenex. It reminds me of, "That's whatchoo've got your sleeve fer." Today you said you loved me. I wanted to tell you to stop lying to me. But instead I bit my lip and swallowed hard Noticing that you won't meet my eyes anymore. Nowadays I'm more observant. I see that we both feel the same way. But this isn't love that I see, it's fear. Otherwise you w

For the Fallen by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

For the Fallen

While I speak to you, my friends I speak for the fallen of my country – Those remembered with just one day Of meditation, of respect, of thankfulness With a moment of silence, perhaps Though they gave their lives for my country. While I speak to you, my friends I speak for the fallen of my country. The sons and brothers and husbands and fathers; The daughters and sisters and wives and mothers. While they were these people, they were firstly soldiers Who gave their lives for my country. While I speak to you, my friends I speak for the fallen of your country Those lying unnamed, always guarded by the vigilant; The men and w

It's been five months... by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

It's been five months...

She isn't here right now. You can tell by the way she's sitting, far back in her chair, spine pressed against the plastic, as if she could become it. As if her transformation into it could bring the memory of him farther away from her. It's in the way she stares so intently at the teacher, as if she can hide away the guilt by not looking at his desk. But let's be honest – no one pays that much attention to anything, not even an Ivy League student. Her eyes are glued to that teacher. She doesn't speak to anyone in this class, not anymore. It's probably because this is the only class she had with him. Her cheeks are flushed a blotchy pink

Your Eyebrows by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Your Eyebrows

I look at you in the mirror And I wonder what you see When you stare at yourself Do you really see? You look at me like I'm crazy When I tell you that you have eyebrows Because you know you have eyebrows But I want you to really see them. They carve out angles on your forehead And curve, dark and angular and handsome Creating planes and lines and sculpting a face The hairs of them dark and fine and soft And beautiful. I look at you in the mirror and I wonder what you see Do you ever smile at your face? Do you ever take the time to consider your uniqueness, Out of the entire human race? You should. I wonder if your smile Wo

I do not know why. by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

I do not know why.

You ask me questions; I have no reply. I do not know why. And I find myself helpless when you cry, I do not know why. You asked me, a friend, to please stay nearby. Sometimes I am wanting to break our ties, I do not know why. You follow and stay and keep me behind You with your pleading and charming so sly, I do not know why. You and me, too conscious to say good-bye I find myself too weak to even try, I do not know why. You must wonder what my actions imply – Too noble, just allowing our time to slip by, I do not know why. And I cannot be honest, just simply too shy. We stare back in silence, and you just stand by. I do not

My Blood by Francis-Dawson, literature

Wispy-Willow Woman by Francis-Dawson, literature

Her Son by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Her Son

Do you think he loves that child - the one inside her womb The child that cannot be his - the child coming soon Do you think he stops and wonders - if that babe's father was loved Remembered, thought on, cared for - and did he treat her like a dove? He thinks they must've loved enough - enough to make a child And that they had a happy marriage - he always drove her wild. He's been dead for seven months now - her widowed life begun But what he questions most of all - can he really love her son?

Tempest by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Tempest

You and I are two travellers on a ship Chancing to be off-shore at a rough-weathered time Our sails battered by the ever-present lightning Ripping fore to aft in any way it can While we are trapped far, far away from port Caught in an ever-present tempest The thunder growling, never striking Though the lightning always compensates willingly Far too willingly for my fragile taste But we will strive to mend and patch the gaps Though the storm will strive to sink us even so We must cling to each other and yet keep our ship afloat And must not let the tempest tear apart our home For soon the tired skies will clear the sea And show t

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Going Through the Motions by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Going Through the Motions

For the Fallen by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

For the Fallen

It's been five months... by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

It's been five months...

Encountering Zeus at Dinner by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Encountering Zeus at Dinner

You built him up to be a hero As admirable as any god So I admit I was intimidated By the sobering prospect Of encountering Zeus at dinner I'll concede that I was terrified By the idea of discussing the weather With Achilles over a cup of tea A veteran Marine, you said, a father figure Leaving me shaking in my shoes - how Could I hope to converse with someone so worldly? So obviously my superior in every way? But then he smiled at me - And I realized - That great heroes are men, too.

Her Son by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Her Son

The Sunset Garden Haven by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

The Sunset Garden Haven

In her worn leather loafers She takes a step outside Past her blooming trees of spring Into her sunset garden haven Liquid gold on the country hillside Her hair is piled on her head Gray, but regal all the same Her spine erect despite her age Eyes full of the world and more As her husband of forty-nine years Follows behind her, with legs That double her footsteps as they walk. She points across the hills, lips moving And I respect her in that moment My grandmother high on the hillside And my grandpa reaches for her hand.

Your Eyebrows by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

Your Eyebrows

My Blood by Francis-Dawson, literature

Dreaming by Francis-Dawson, literature

Nightmares by Francis-Dawson, literature

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For the Fallen by Francis-Dawson, literature

Literature

For the Fallen

Francis-Dawson

About Francis-Dawson

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Artist

May 17
Deviant for 16 years
She / Her

Badges

Favourite Visual Artist

Frederic Leighton

Favourite Movies

The Phantom of the Opera

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Bon Jovi

Favourite Writers

Shakespeare

Favourite Games

Age of Mythology

Favourite Gaming Platform

...? PS2, maybe? IDK!

Tools of the Trade

Inspiration and a pencil

Other Interests

Writing

Posts

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Francis-Dawson

Mar 23, 2012

I am living perfectly legally - I promise!

0 min read

Soooo after some very interesting happenings at school yesterday, I decided it was time to clear up my identity. I discovered yesterday, much to my amusement, that if you use a penname online to write poetry and then submit that same poetry to your school's literary magazine, they will check to see if it's been plagiarized, and you WILL get caught. Even if you were the one to post it online. My AP, who handled it very gracefully when she realized that Francis-Dawson and Emily Thompson are one and the same, said, "Well, at least you know we're checking!" And that is a comfort. No one at Marcus will plagiarize my work and get away with it. No

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Francis-Dawson

Mar 25, 2011

Might stop calling myself a horrid artist...

0 min read

Honestly? Not the best of evenings. I've been crying on and off all night...may have finally stopped. I need to go to sleep, I know I do, but I keep hearing things that remind me of what happened, and it's just difficult. I don't really feel like going into what happened this evening over the interwebs...this isn't the place. However, I'm slowly recovering, and hopefully tomorrow will be happier than I expect it to be. It can only get easier with time. Right? I did everything I could. In other news, I made it into my high school litmag...yay. I was much more excited yesterday. My poem over there

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Francis-Dawson

Jul 9, 2010

Drawing is underrated. :P

0 min read

Especially drawing bodies. I mean, they look beautiful when they're done right, but tis no verra easy at all. Especially breasts! And noses! I knew there was a reason that I write things instead of drawing them. |P