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Out of reachSometimes, I want you to understand. No matter what you do, you can't change me. I'm not perfect in your eyes, or anyone else's. Not even my own.
I don't need to be reminded on how much I hate myself. I already know. I've done things I thought I would never do. From a young age, I have been evil incarnate. To you I am a shadow.
I have done bad things. But what you don't realise is that I never meant to hurt anyone. I was trying to help. I should probably be in jail for the things I remember that I've done. Maybe an asylum.
But no one died, that I can remember.
The only person who died was me. And I died striving for what wasn't there.
From what I remember, I was trying to be perfect. Trying to do the impossible. I only enjoyed three things and they were the things keeping me going. Free running, drawing, and writing.
Free running was the thing that killed the old me. I refuse to do what I did before. I will still write and draw and run. But I'm not going through Hell again.
You don't u
Carnevil CircusChapter 1: Promise of A lifetime
Shriek ducked under a branch, staying silent as he ran as fast as he could. Away from that place, that STUPID, EVIL, place. He began breathing heavily, they barley let them exercise so they couldn't run. He was only a mile away, at least the experiments gave him extended strength speed and accuracy.
He slid under a fallen tree, and down a steep hill, landing in a muddy river that covered his dark green top in mud and got his baggy black jeans soaked. His combat boots remained dry inside. He grabbed the lavender perfume and sprayed the trees before discarding the can on the river, after creating a leak.
Shriek was fourteen. He had green hair and dark blue eyes with grey tinged pale skin that made him look sick. His hair was cut short, and was messy, covering his left eye. It was darker behind his fringe, which helped in the camouflage. He took a break for a minute.
There was a faint barking in the background of the silence, and loud approac
Make it stopI wasn't scared at first.
I mean, I knew what happened to women who were accused of being witches in this time, but I had a very high pain tolerance, and could engage my natural healing process at any time. Any scars would go quickly, I had potions for that.
When I was caught- well, not really caught. I'm not a witch, am I? Nah. There isn't a proper name for the species yet, as I REFUSE to be called a fairie or fairy, however it's spelt. I just call myself a Hybrid.
Anyway, when I was caught, there was a bit of panic on my end; I thought I'd been really careful but I suppose not. I was taken to the local church where they put me through the tests. They tried the cross first. I guess I'm lucky I'm not a full demon; crosses only work if they're bigger than I am and closer than three inches away. When the cross didn't work, they tried holy water. Holy water doesn't do anything but strengthen my angel DNA, so I was safe on that. In fact, if anything it helped my argument; it ke
No longer sickI'm not tanned and I'm not fair.
My skin is ripped I have no hair.
I cannot speak I cannot move.
I try to talk no words come through.
My lips are dry can't feel a thing.
I can't see I think I'm slipping.
Light hits my face and it gets to my head.
I'm no longer sick; I am dead.
I don't understand why you hate him,
Why you can't love him.
I don't know your reasons,
Perhaps it's because of your differences.
But I think you're being cruel,
Because you know how it's like to be rejected.
I don't want you to think,
That I'm on his side or anything.
I'm trying to take an equal ground.
But you're making it hard for me,
I already have enough trouble.
They found out about everything,
They know I'm cutting.
They know I'm hurting.
They know I'm dying.
They know I have problems.
They're trying to fix me.
You guys, you can't seem to help.
Michelle, you're acting strangely. You're hiding from me, and I don't like it. I know you're having problems, and I know it's hard for you, but please. Talk to me. I think you're dying Mimi, and I don't know how to deal with it. I can't understand your problems, I know. But every time he tells me about why he thinks you don't want to love him, it makes me feel sad. It's killing me Mimi.
Talk to me.
Billy, I know it hurt
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?
They ask it like a dare.
As if letting your unlikely dreams
slip from the safety of your mind
could bring their own
a little closer to reality.
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in modern art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
What Writers AreWriters are people from
both ends of the spectrum.
Those that know isolation
and the thoughts that follow.
Those that know enlightenment.
And those with nowhere else to go,
but deeper down the rabbit hole.
Writers are smiths of the word,
using imagination, experience,
and emotions to temper the
glass and steel we are given.
We fill the page with pieces
And writers are Gods.
Broken or whole or
barely scraping through.
We make you see our world.
We make you feel and care.
All with a bunch of lines,
which we have given life.
Hope in my Lawyer's Paperclip JarMy lawyer's desk on a normal Wednesday afternoon
is flooded with sheafs of white legal pads and errant staples.
Today is Wednesday, but the clouds outside
his twelfth-story window are shaped like loss
and the lines around his eyes seem crater-like in the shadows
and nothing about the last three weeks of my life
has been normal, so I don't know why it surprises me
to find his desk cleared of debris.
I wait for him in a silence that ebbs and flows with my heartbeats,
the zipper on my knee highs tapping against my leg like rain.
When he returns, hands filled with coffee
and the paperwork for a restraining order
against the man he set me up with almost a month ago,
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
"There's only one paperclip left in the magnetic jar.
It's bent like a swan."
I can tell, from the awkward shuffling of his loafers,
that he's wondering if he should have brought the Kleenex, after all.
He knows women often cry at things such as these,
reminders of the men they've love
Dizzy Girl,you can't cure sorrow. The drops
on the windshield are swallowed
by this traffic's color and you
are just the driver.
Other people pass
with paint blearing,
though I do wish
there was an ending,
questions spark in halos
of low street lamps as you veer
toward the center,
recollections are ceaseless.
She will be at your left and the gust
through the tinted window
will be humid,
you taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
Silence is the loudest Scream
Silence rips your voice apart,
Your mouth opens to say something, but no sound comes out,
Your tears are falling silently,
You're screaming but you can't hear anything,
They can't hear you either,
Not over the laughter of the shadows surrounding you.
Pain travels up your back,
Across your face,
Down your legs,
Around your neck,
It burns at you.
Your skin is torn off strip by bloody strip,
And your hair ripped off in uneven chunks,
You already knew you were ugly,
But you don't care,
You just want it to stop.
The laughter is loud,
And it echoes through your head,
You feel sick but you can't do a thing.
Finally they leave,
And you are left,
As nothing but muscle and bone,
In a pool of your own blood.
Why are they still laughing?
You only now feel the noose of chains around your neck,
And hear the motor of a car.
It's finally ove
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