A CreatorI know myself so well, I don’t think I know myself at all.An introduction is difficult because there’s so many layers to a human, I wouldn’t know where to start. If I told you anything, it would probably be the most surface, typical things, I’d bore you to death. I could tell you about how I’m allergic to my own cat, how I hate sand with a burning passion, about how my worst nightmare is talking in front of people. You might argue that those things make me who I am, but I don’t know that anyone cares. I can try to dig deep but really, I’m not even sixteen, what do I know about myself?All I know is I stopped sleeping a long time ago.I’m not an insomniac, to clarify. It’s just that everything seemed too much, all the words, the music, the fresh pages of a book, the worn down green graphite pencils. How could you possibly go to sleep when there was so much to be made, drawn, created, written? The year I found this out, I was ruined.
There's an End to EverythingMy lungs have become glass; my heart stone and my brain is just a puddle of nothing. I’m dropping, dropping, dropping, but I never hit the ground. I don’t even know, is that possible? There has to be an end to everything, or so I’ve thought.I guess I’ve just been wrong a lot lately.I can feel the random stabs of pain that jolt up my spine and course through my nerves. They cause me to jerk and groan, but my eyes refuse to open.I like the way her hand feels sifting through my hair; the way her arms wrap around me and how she breathes softly in my ear. Her breath is unusually gentle and her grip remarkably tight. People have always underestimated her; though not me. Even she herself doesn’t understand. I’ve watched her repair things thought to be irreparable and I’ve seen her do things that no one else would dare.Unconsciously I can feel her grip on me loosen and her breathing cease. At this, my eyes flutter open and another bolt of electrici
Ninety percentHe is about sixty percent dead. Maybe seventy percent, it’s hard to tell.His long arms hang loosely on his shoulders and his lips are cracked, chewed. His damaged blue eyes lifelessly scan the book that lies on the table in front of him. Even though so numb and cold, his eyes don’t fail to amaze the people that stare at him curiously. They have a fascinating sparkle and are filled with wonders, but it’s easy to see that soon the power will fade. With time he collects scars. And with those scars, his life begins to leak and disappear down the rusted drain.His handsome face is hidden underneath dark shadows, gaunt cheekbones, and much too pale skin. His callused hands have scars across the knuckles and bruises line the side of his neck. He taps his foot, tap, tap, tap. Pause. He looks up for a second and the girl across the room catches his eyes. He averts her gaze and turns back to his book anxiously. Tap, tap, tap.Study his long dark lashes, the effor
I'm Falling ApartNothing about Death is romantic.Romance is not the cries of agony heard from miles away, the blood that seeps into the floorboards, nor the ropes that hang from the ceiling. Romance is not the hand that goes limp on a bed with white sheets… not screams of help in the moonlight.Romance is slow dancing with no music, kisses after a fight, promises of the night.But Death… Death is harsh, cruel, angry, and alone. So alone. His boney fingers wrap around the necks of the innocent and hardly ever the guilty. His teeth are sharp, his eyes are dark, his soul black and coated with the ones he reaps.We grieve, we pain, we hurt, we suffer…All because of Love.Love is deep, dark, and vast like the ocean. My mother told me this once when I was small; she told me that while it makes some stronger, it can break others. Did it make me stronger? I have no idea. Am I broken? Maybe. Maybe I am.And Anger grips us so tightly, with only the biggest efforts we escape.