I thought.

I thought not.

But then I wonder.

Where has this river taken us?

Pristine water-

It lies

I lay down

On the river bank

To watch the hum and flow

Ever shifting

Never faltering

Why wait for such

Insignificance?

It continues to breeze

Past the ragged rocks

Because nothing can stop it

Perhaps it is this

Clear untainted water

That has diluted us

Pried us apart

Nudged us to the rocky ground

Harsh and sweet smelling

We lie

But not together

And the river runs on

Labels: Drabbles, Inspiration makes me happy, Poetry, Type: Free Verse

This will not be a sad story.

I refuse to let it go on as though everything is a smouldering prophecy. I can finally take control and bury it deep below the surface.

The ink inscribed into this sheet will be without the unsettling stains of salty tears. The words you see will not be burdened with the teenaged air of sullen rebellion.

(For I am like a clenched fist, I have always resisted the truth).

This story will unfurl itself, the masquerade of a secret spun by a young mind. Cold fingers pause and hover over the s key. This may not be a story, a quiet thought mutters. Perhaps it is just an attempt to retain myself in the blaze of twisted glory we call life. My head inclines ever so slightly to the right, as though contemplating this text at a different angle will force it into a sensible mould.

But I know better. Words are designed to frame the insensible and inexplicable, not to recreate the known. At least, that is what I feel when I write, a rapidly mounting sense of awed accomplishment. That feeling that is stemmed from the determination to reach, to claw out of miserable circumstances and tell a story that has yet to be told. Yes, this is undoubtedly a story.

(For I am like a rose set on fire, I have always been beautiful in suffering).

My fingers resume a constant tapping of keys playing a toneless music. The sound pulses in my ears like it is a living thing, quick, young paws padding over broken glass. It cuts a little into my mind but eggs to me go on.

This will be the cracked mirror of my life, a fragmented tale. It will be a recollection of everything that has made me what I am. For tonight, I will write without abandon and smile in the artificial glow of a computer screen, ablaze with the only sincere glory I know of.

The slamming of a door shatters this dream ever so slightly, albeit unintentionally.

(For I am like a knowing prey, I know that all good things must come to an end).

The pattering of abused keys crescendos anxiously, parallel to the exasperated sighs churning the air. I will write for as long as I can hold on to the feeling of needing to scream at the world, despite the heat pricking my ears and my spine at the sighs. This is my story, it will not be sad and I have to tell it.

Her voice is suddenly very jarring. It halts my fervent fingertips in their tracks. Even now I can hear the shade of dismal frustration in her voice, frayed with the perverse hours of work, sobs and flashbacks in that order. It occurs to me that I should entertain her maternal ideals, for her sake more than mine. With a sigh, the laptop wears its mask once more.

(For I am a dying martyr, I believe that people deserve better than I).

I flit down the stairs, hands tracing banisters and railing without a solid touch. But with every ghostly step, words are circling my mind and tinting my vision a shade of grey. Every action translates into a slick sentence and carefully crafted words. They add to the story my fingers are itching to write, to ease the blaze inside of me.

My destination is mere seconds away but something compels me to stop. I stagger and stand, fazed. A near tangible wave of raw emotion, the kind that prompts people to do unimaginably noble things but, in my case, just begs for a single moment of selfishness.

The dining table is strewn with unspoken words and battered memories of battered skin. She looks up, hair falling in aged wisps along her scarred cheeks. The eye contact honestly frightens me. I do not want to remember the soul that barely occupies those eyes. That is not my mother although she may be. But this is my story and I can spare the memories that she embodies and carries.

I will not burden myself or these words like she is doing.

(For I am the ripped Sunday dress of the little girl grown up, I have lost so much of the childlike beauty to the glorious blaze of a writer’s word).

The venture back up is a sinful safe haven. For once, her voice unshackles me. The keyboard is waiting dutifully for my touch, to aid my writing of my story. I am not a key, I will not be abused like she is and she was.

This is not a sad story.

For it is a mere child’s say.

But it is a story of brutal truth.

And innocence burned away.

Labels: Competition, Prose

Challenge-ish collab thing with Doof.

Prompt line was dying to be thing (: Hope you enjoy it!

And jiayou for EYAs~ :D
----

Dying to be thin
Dying to change
Dying to be perfect
Dying to thrive

All the same
Heart wrenching
Brain numbing
Wrist aching
Iron fists of glory
Our frail paper hearts
Simply cannot
Maintain

Dying to be loved
Dying to have faith
Dying to end it all
Dying to transform

Chewed by repition
Left swollen on the tongue
Words broken
But fierce
The bitter taste
Lingers like symphonies
What do we call
Failure in its
Fantasized form

Dying to possess
Dying to succeed
Dying to make a difference
Dying to be unique

Bullet casings scatter
Across satin skies
And we can count them
One by one by one
Till the memory
Fades, Polaroids
Of the once-was
Sinking fast past
Better judgement
Wishing on stars
Dancing in moonlight
For our hearts to rise

Dying for help
Dying for happiness
Dying for everything

Or nothing at all

Labels: Challenge, Collab, Drabbles, Inspiration makes me happy, Poetry, Type: Free Verse

I'm terrified to speak
Even though words
Sculpt themselves
Out of nausea and disquiet
Pressing against the
Inside of my jaw
Agonizing, yes?
Little pinprick screams
For resurgence

I'm terrified
That I can't find
A suitable synonym
For the word terrified
That, painstakingly
All the words will melt
Away like auburn leaves
To amnesia
And I'll be left standing
With nothing to my name
But sticky grains of time

I'm terrified of
The travesty I call
Wisdom and witticisms
Sandpaper words that scrape
Wounded knees
Eventually they will haunt me
Take a sinking rueful bite
Then the mirrors will shatter
Seven years of bad
Blood and your daily dose of
Bittersweet regret

I'm terrified
Of this poem
With its resonating inadequacy
Taking slow suicidal
Steps to the edge
The words still scream
In my ears, in the wind
But some are left
Sawing at my wrists
I fight to hold on to them
Sadistic saviours, you say?

Nevertheless
Poison flows thick
Like honey
Till it reaches
A capillary
One tear too small

----

And this, my friends, is the lovechild of devastation and Writer's Block D:

Labels: Drabbles, I hate Writer's Block, Poetry, Type: Free Verse

Then you will see things I don't want you to see.

Though it's not like you'll see them.

You will look without meaning to.

And there they are, in plain sight.

Crawling behind letters, hopping from word to word.

But you'll never find these inexplicable things.

Not while I keep them hidden.

In the letters and in the words.

No one looks between the letters.

Labels: Drabbles

Night lays its veil
Over her weak shoulders
But a silent death
Cannot mute a cry
The door grapples along its hinges
To keep shut, keep out, keep in
Why? How?
A sob of undiluted
Despair
Questions bounce off
Clueless walls
Can anyone hear me?

No

Can you please listen to me?

I will

She thought so
Much for such innocence
Ripped and marred
But barely recovered each time
The tears bend her eyelashes
Kiss along her cheekbones
A sole source of comfort
In a mess of jagged sheets
They're out to spite her
All of them
Are they really?

Perhaps

Do they care?

... Yes

She just can't believe it
How unbearably loud
The plane of midnight can be
Javelin words and quicksand guilt
Whizzing nefariously fast
She forces her body into
A tiny little ball
Shutting out the liminal rooms
Reality falters for a fleeting
Moment that unwinds her
But only for a moment
Can they stop?

No

Does it matter?

No

Again.
Again.
Again.
It'll all end, she promises
Herself this final wish
Her jaw tightens
Eyelashes sticking, falling in
Dead clumps
The air tastes of
Charged static
Nerve endings, rather
But it leaves that metalic smell
That she knows will begin the spark
Fists kiss the floor
Is it time?

Yes.

Is this right?

Yes.

The air condensed
Electricity
To magma
Thick and soupy in her lungs
Melting the ignorance
Once and for all
Her knees scraped
The floor, smooth
But latent with war

And then they saw her
So much older than she was
But there was still the ragdoll
Losing warmth in her fists
To drag her back to childhood

So what do you do
When a child walks in on
Terror and filfth
Everything that you've laid out
For her not to see
You shoot at nothing
Bullets like rain
Screams like thunder
Blood like lightning

Did they hear me?

I don't know.

It's okay

They're gone now

At least I have you, dolly

Labels: I hate Writer's Block, Poetry, Type: Free Verse