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YellowLife awaits everyone, but the only one that can make it flourish is the possessor of that life. It's up to that possessor to listen to the whispers of the helpful others while also listening to the beating ribcage that holds their heart, and walk down the path that makes them Great.
PerfIt was a surreal feeling. Leaping back into those depths after so many years of fear. Tranquility, passion, they all rushed back to me as fear and hate was pushed and scuffed against the lanes that would occasionally bore into pale knuckles. It swirled with a still dryness that the above wouldn't greet you with.
P E R F E C T I O N
E A S E
R E A L I T Y
F R E E D O M
Let's Do ThisLet's do this
Life and death are intertwined
When you are born you age, but aging is just another word for dying
Let's walk through death
Let's walk while dying
Let's grow in the world of warmth and red before age sets in
You grow alongside your friend Enemy and lie in bed with your seemingly unknown Death
The world is your mother and father; the DNA coding laced through your fingertips like fine ballet shoes
You walk across the land
And you live beside the age
A King's PuppetI was a torturer
One with no family and no peace
Like a hidden child,
Silenced and locked away
Until the day I was set free,
taken into the world of one who obeys their king.
I became somebody's puppet
to do with as he commanded,
In one of many wars I fought,
this form of mine died,
Completely impaled by a spike of pain.
After, I wandered aimlessly, obeying my king
Then, I found a form again
and I found something more,
I disobeyed my king.
The Word CreatureA being with dripping wings stands in my doorway
He rings along with a lamented song and feeble feet
Above, starlit grids twinkle down on her bitter temper but her eyes shine with an amorous wanting
His bones are lean and rise with each tender breath
Capturing my vision to stare at her, this feeling is encompassing
London EyeDrip drop
Water is running down the clock
Water is dashing across the block
Water is dancing with the flock
People are talking
Cats are stalking
Let's all marvel at this city's walking
Crisp ThoughtsR e m e m b e r i n g
R e m i n d i n g
Snowflakes pitter patter across his winter spoken features
What is my love doing now?
Stepping out of frozen lakes or maybe staring out of that window
W a n d e r i n g
W o n d e r i n g
Ocean sea shores and captivating orchestras
Pelts of brown green ruled tales
Bubbling dynasties of gold
Wide clam shell eyes, pure and stormy
Words will never hurt me.Hating yourself is a commitment.
You aren't born with it; it's something that is learned. When it begins varies from person to person- perhaps it only starts in high school, maybe it's something that grows from when you're too young to understand what is happening. It likely starts off innocuously - "What was stopping you from getting that A?" "Why can't you be different?" "Maybe you should lose some weight." "I don't want to be friends anymore."
But, sure enough, it builds. It grows, like a weed that feeds from each negative experience thrown your way. As it grows, you lose your ability to let words bounce off you- they start to stick, digging into your skin with their sharp edges. They sink into you, growing stronger and larger with each repetition. Soon the word becomes an attachment, an extension of you. And soon it becomes the first thing you notice in the mirror, the first thing you think of when somebody asks you to describe yourself?
Irregular VerbsI am disputing
You're having a tantrum
He/she/it is a whinging nancy
I am offended
You are too sensitive
He/she/it is passive aggressive
I am hopeful
You are delusional
He/she/it is a selfish prig
I am rugged
You are ugly
He/she/it is evidence against human evolution
I am enlightened
You are snobbish
He/she/it is a cocky pig
I am needing
You are wanting
He/she/it is trying to deprive me of my rights
I am right
You are wrong
He/she/it is unable to compromise
I am capable
You are arrogant
He/she/it is a narcissistic fool
I am knowledgeable
You are misinformed
He/she/it is sane if he/she/it agrees with me
I am culturally sensitive
You are obsequious
He/she/it is a politically correct bolshie stooge
AppointmentI thought I heard someone sneaking around out there.
Hello. Please, take a seat. Would you like some...no? Suit yourself then.
If you don't mind, I'm just going to switch this on. No, no, nothing special. That noise? No, it's just me. Try to block it out, it's not important.
So, you sought me out, did you? Most people do, after all. And would I be correct in thinking that...what? Oh, yes, of course, here you go...no, not a problem at all. Anyways, like I was saying, would I be correcting in assuming that you have sought me out in order to beg for more of me? Mm, I thought so. That's generally the answer I get. I know, weird, right?
Hmm? No, no, don't mind that, it's just me. Don't worry about it.
So, what has brought you to the point of begging? I...hmm? Well, that is what you're here for, right? You thought, you thought... what? The sign outside was rather clear, wasn't it? Yes, that's what it says. And it means that you only get to be here for a bit. So, let's start again, sha
the mechanisms of ocean waves When I was little, I loved sea foam.
Running forward to the shore, I would watch waves lap up at my feet and then recede, dragging the sand under my feet back with it. Sea foam would fringe the edges of these silky waves like lace, and I would grab at it, cup it in my hands. I would remember the origins of Aphrodite (born of sea foam, risen out of the ocean as the most beautiful goddess of all), and I would cradle it, hold it close to me, as if I could absorb it into my being.
By the time I brought the sea foam up to my face, it had leaked through my fingers, dissolved. Leaning down, I would cup it again and again and again, gathering fragile lace like a fine seamstress, hoping to maybe sew it onto the edges of myself, make myself some semblance of Aphrodite. Yet it crumbled, leaked through my fingers, leaving only the trace of salt behind.
Eventually I gave up on the sea foam. One cannot keep chasing after things that just barely exist.
My father told me never to plunge int
Our Ritual Dismemberments...And when she spoke the world shrunk down and became simpler, softer, a better imitation of itself that held no possible pain. Like a dollhouse with its utopian storyline that was, by nature, created by those with young and innocent lives. Somehow she touched that world with her voice, despite how often it fled her grasp.
"I ignored it for years, which is a good thing I suppose. But now I'm unsure where it started, where it truly began, because I spent so long pretending that it wasn't there. That I was normal, like the others. Not normal, but...equal to them? Not broken in any way."
She paused as her words caught in her throat, some squeezing through strangled and malformed-- a discarded thought in process. This was one of the many symptoms I had seen in her, a gross reality composed of many images, many small horrors that no professionally removed medical manual could possibly prepare me for.
"I didn't know what it was called. I wish I had at least known its name back then. A name
RememberDo you remember all the sunsets we have seen?
Do you remember the days when we cried over life?
Do you remember the sleepless nights and the nightmares hunting us?
Do you remember the fears we shared?
Do you remember how we wanted to just close our eyes and let the world around disappear?
He knew it was somewhere in the back of his mind, in the middle of all the brimming chaos and confusion of thoughts and privacies. It wasn’t as if he’d lost his sanity, that he’d become a madman. He’d never had it in the first place. It was the veil of obstruction that clearly defined who he was and was not. Like reaching into the back of the darkly-lit cave, he sprawled through the recessess of things in his psyche that he cared not for. Things that the world chose to dump in his indifferent basket of a mind. It was in the back of all the debris where he found his object. His delusion of immortality.
What is strange is akin to seeing a new colour. It rests just beyond the grasp of the perceivable precisely because it cannot be perceived. Thus the strange retains the quality of being strange. Or so she thought it to be in life. It wasn’t a dogma or a motto for her. Not really. It was a ruleset that s
The MoonI sleep on the moon some nights. It’s pretty cold but I’ve left a blanket up there now so it’s not so bad. You might not think so, but the moon is a lot more comfortable than a bed - or at least, my bed. It’s never really dark up there because the star are always playing and laughing. They tell some pretty extraordinary jokes, believe it or not. But the moon, the moon tells the grandest tales. The moon has seen a lot and there’s been many others like me who slept on the moon and told their tales and lives to the moon. Someday, others like me will probably hear about my tales and life from the moon. I hope they do not become too sad hearing about it. I get sad about some the tales and lives of others like me told by the moon. I wonder if the moon gets sad. The moon hears a lot of these tales and lives from others like me.
Mountain Sound (Vignette 5)He was shivering, violently. The only sound that he could hear was the river rushing. His breathes were quick and strained. On the edge of the river bank he stood, wild eyed and dripping. His thoughts were disorientated and racing. The wind blew and his teeth clattered together. He looked around madly, trying to find any indication of where he was, how he got there, why he was there.
The sun started rising. The sky lightened and the world became brighter. He started following the river. He noticed the dead willow tree and headed towards his home. What is happening to me? What is happening to me? What is happening to me?
The backdoor to his house was wide opened. He ran inside and shut it, locked it. The contents of the house looked untouched except the clock laying on the floor in broken pieces. He looked at his watch. It was broken too, drowned. What is happening?
It was warmer in the house. His breathing slowed and he changed into dry clothes. The birds were singing morning songs and
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