Promises are mostly lies to please...
Stream of Consciousness of a Saddened 22 Year OldToday I feel sad.
Well, mostly every day I feel sad, for one reason or another. The reason could be so simple, yet so complicated and difficult to fix. What line of circumstances can be controlled to avoid sadness all together? God forbid someone knows the answer to that question…
I haven’t written in so very long a time. I don’t recall the last thing I wrote, other than a card or a post-it note at work. I haven’t truly written in so long a time. I used to love doing this – writing out my thoughts as they come. “Stream of consciousness” was my favourite style of writing – a haphazard journal that recorded my thoughts in a more in-depth way than an actual journal could.
You see, I’m here now. How-many-ever years it’s been since my last piece, and I’m at a loss. I don’t know where exactly I went wrong or why it’s not better now that my situation has improved. I don’t know why I always feel so nostalgic fo
Crimson Vengeance for CreepieMonetThe light browns of the Morrocan village once stirred the villagers' hearts; they loved their small town, they loved knowing everyone who lived nearby, but that had all changed
One night was all it took to rip out the peace and replace it with terror; one night of bloodlust flowing through the town; grown men were reduced to their knees; respected elders were reduced to the common rabble. Everyone in Asilah fell to the very ground they made their livelihoods on, and all because one man chose one town to run down.
Children and elderly rushed about the streets, seeking hiding places. Women and wives carried buckets of water to burning huts. Grown men planned an offensive, but nothing they did would work; they faced a mad man; a man who had lost all hope for his world, and instead turned to murder; he turned to rape. Any young girl that crossed his path became violated; a baker's daughter fell to her knees in front of the man; her hair a mess and her face splattered faintly in blood
Commission: Spoils of a Treasure HunterThe pizzeria had the finest take on synthesising the perfect Supreme pizza; the capsicum sat atop a bed of thinly sliced ham, and the pineapple rested in amongst the olive fragments. Øyvind Herstad considered it a marvelous indulgence; the perfect requisite for his next great treasure hunt with his delectably gorgeous companions Kaitlyn and Kara Walker.
"Ah yes girls" He spoke intelligently, although not so much the words, as the way he portrayed them across the thin, cool air "Another heist completed, another trophy to add to your walls. It is time however, for us to begin again. I've heard rumour of a treasure crypt in Greece; rumours tell of great fortune befitting a conquering knight. This is where we will head to next."
Kara smiled and glanced around the room, her long brown and white striped hair flowing over her shoulders. The drink in her hand remained still and unnerved as she examined the pizzeria.
"I've heard of this crypt" she spoke quietly, "I've heard t
The Truth Is Hard"Like a rock" she said,
Eyes glinting in the sun,
Shining in their purity,
Blink; then continue;
"Like a brick; like a bone,
Like the urge of a soldier,
trying to go home".
"Like the pain of what was,
And what is still to come"
In grief, she bowed her head;
With grief she became numb.
"You see, I lost the one I loved;
I don't know what to do,
I told him that I would change,
He said "It's me, it isn't you."
"Yet overtime I came to learn,
That what he said was false"
With tears she fell onto the ground,
Filled with dread and dark remorse.
"I would rather have lived with his lies,
Than to know what I learned today,
Because "It's not you" was a lie,
Just like my "I'm okay"".
"The truth is hard" I said to her,
And reassured her thus;
"But although he didn't count on it,
We're not you, we're us"
"We'll stick together; I'll help you through,
Get you back onto your feet;
You're not a victim; you're victorious,
And he, we will defeat."
Waiting Silently in a Tattered Rocking ChairSilence.
She sat in complete silence.
Outside the dull, grey walls of her twelfth-story apartment, the world moved endlessly, noisily.
But to her, there was silence. Complete silence.
A ceiling fan rotated slowly above her; a fly lay dead on the window sill beside her; the festering corpse of a mouse lay putridly on the carpet in the corner of the hot, humid room across from her.
Yet, she sat in silence.
The window was home to a single potted plant; a small green sapling growing hesitantly out into the ever-putrid air of the apartment. It's dish had long-since cracked in the heat, and rot where the water leaks through had slowly begun to develop.
A child's watering can, no bigger than her palm, rested - a faded red - on a table beside the window. The plastic bubbled in the heat; large bulbous growths protruded from its surface.
The spout rarely let out more than a few drops nowadays.
Back in its days - back when old Mrs. Adalai was young - the pot plant was large and vibrant. The apart
Odyssey into 2012 Chapter 1The glare of the first gate blinds her momentarily; her memories flooded with a luminescence overpowering. She can't remember who she is, or why she's here.
She is oblivious to herself and the world around her; all she knows is the gate and the surrounding darkness. Hesitantly, she steps through, and is blinded again by a bright white glare.
Slowly the glare dies down as her eyes adjust. She can see clearly now; both the gate and her memory. She had traveled a long way to be here, to open this gate. She had travelled across the galaxy in the blink of an eye, she had opened a portal through time and space, and she had climbed through it. A portal in her mind, and it was such a portal that she could grant herself this omnipresence.
Her people were the Skylarks, and they knew her as a Gatekeeper; they recognised her unique abilities as mirroring those of the ancients. She was the remnant of a past long forgotten
She arrived in a city overrun by smog and giant grey buildings. "Is thi
your poemyou tell me on a thursday that you can’t find
the god inside of yourself anymore, that
you think that you are finally
too much honeycomb and not enough human
because lately everything has been slipping
through your fingers, and you don’t know how you can
keep holding yourself together anymore.
if today is the day that you look
at the stars and you no longer
feel their burn beneath your bones,
i will show you the blanket i tried to make
when i was eight, and i will tell you all i know
about the string theory, which isn’t much, i admit,
but i do know the basics,
and that’s that everything in the universe
is composed of strings that somehow
loop onto each other infinitely.
so whenever you feel like you’re
walking a tightrope without a safety
net below you, know that you are
thousands of tightropes strung together,
and one fall will not kill you.
i have never told you about the way
i can feel my pulse skitter to a stop
in my wrists whenever i hear you laughing
Little GirlThere sits the girl with the things in her eyes
Monsters, destruction, and sweet butterflies
Hopscotch and daisies, surrounded by screams
Beautiful dresses now torn at the seams
Crayons and paintbrushes, villains and grins
Young, gladsome innocence, hatred and sins
Little red houses on roads left to fade
Gorgeous moonlight shining off of the blade
Blood pouring out as she cries her own name
Knowing she's forced to take each bit of blame
She could have stopped it and left it behind
All of these things in her troubled young mind
She could have saved them if she dared to try
Rather, though, she left herself there to die.
Now, others watch as she sits on the ground
Keeping their distance and letting her drown
In her own worries and things she won't tell
Waiting for her mind to kill her as well.
it's okay to not be okaysometimes it’s okay
to sit on the floor of the bathroom stall
and let your feelings gather- it’s okay
to let them pool like a lachrymose lagoon
as the inside of your stomach does summersaults;
I know these emotions can’t be tenderly released,
they’re not soft waves kissing the expecting shore,
let them pour out of you like tidal waves-
release the tsunami from within you
and I know sometimes the tears will sodden your pillowcase,
they’ll be juggernauts- those brackish beads
cathartically-cartwheeling down your flushed cheeks;
but remember how even the clouds
may cry tempestuously today,
only to make room
for much brighter days
so I promise you, darling
it’s going to be okay.
Depression Isn't RealDepression isn’t true, my dear
Depression isn’t real.
It’s just a silly tragedy
You’ve forced yourself to feel.
Anxiety is fake, my friend
You wonder why it’s there.
But others have it worse than you!
Stop forming false despair.
Cutting is dramatic, love,
It’s ugly, and it’s dumb.
Why not just get over it?
Is the attention fun?
Suicide is stupid, dear,
And selfish, if I may.
Get over yourself, darling,
Can you hear these things I say?
Why aren’t you replying, love?
Oh, where could you have gone?
I never meant to hurt you, love,
Did I say something wrong?
Why aren’t you replying, dear?
Depression isn’t true!
Oh, but yes it was, “my dear”...
Just maybe not for you.
a list of things colleges don't want to know1. i have a cactus named atticus that i bought
on the day i thought i was going to die,
and i never forget to water it, not
even when i forget how it feels
to breathe without my lungs rebelling
against my brain.
2. sometimes talking feels like walking on gravel
in a Georgian summer heat.
i try to keep talking anyway,
and hope that eventually
my voice will lose its softness and grow calluses.
3. once, a man whistled at me
outside of a grocery store from
the safety of his car.
four years later, i still haven’t stopped looking
over my shoulder.
4. i drive too fast and i take turns too sharply
and i never put enough sugar
in my tea and i could probably survive
on watermelon alone. i’m left handed
and once taught myself to write only in capital
letters to piss off my seventh grade english teacher.
5. i have never felt closer to my father
than when we stayed
outside till two a.m. in november and watched
a meteor shower.
6. there are some things
i don’t think i’ll ever
You Never Really Were ThereYou're right here, I know it.
I can hear your voice,
I can see your eyes,
I can smell your scent,
I can feel my heartbeat
Speeding as you approach.
But when I reach out my hand
To try and touch your face,
You just vanish in the air,
Remembering me that
You never really were there.
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.
her hollow bones.i.)
the skeletons hung
in her closet,
lurking in her
eyes as she watched the
across the glass
in the window and
she let it linger
on her dust-covered
mirror too for she couldn't
stand to look
in his eyes
made for trapping
dying ravens like
her in pools of
(and he was the type to give flowers
whilst she was the type to twist
the heads off without remorse and
throw everything down the drain
without a second glance)
in passion (but not in love)
because her paper
skin and vermillion
lips were not made to
last the summer, her
marble ice features were
created to melt
away into the dust.
on the day he
left her hollow
bones for an angel
girl with wings who
liked roses and
empty promises she
could never understand
up her fragments
of ivory and
put them to rest
in the closet beside
- numb hearts have no feelings
melismai have heard that every woman
is either ophelia or the queen,
either too much or not enough,
either drowning or swimming, either
dying from grief of living with guilt.
but i have run past enough finish
lines in my life to know that sometimes
you give up and sometimes you keep
going until your legs hurt and your
what i mean is that i used to forget
that there once was
a version of me that did not
know the twelve shades of blue in
your eyes or what words to use
to describe them.
what i mean is that i still catch myself
thinking about that time i saw
you singing in your kitchen with your
hair down, dancing around to the radio
in a shirt i thought i had lost months ago.
what i mean is that i’ve started
ignoring you in the hallways
because it’s less painful than looking
at you and not knowing what
our problem was always that we
had too much water, too many novels
written in the backs of our mouths,
too many bones for our skin, too many