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Daunted ReverieI grab the sheets and feel with fingertips
A chilled fabric, testament of
life without you
This quiet sleep without dreams
While the night still holds bright stars
And I gaze out the window wondering
if you ever will exist
Where I can hold you close and
A chiding laugh and I close my eyes
There is a whole lot of sky between
you and I
Which to a dreamer is not so daunting
But my wings are papier-mâché
Tearing in the collected rain of
this brutal reality
In which I can only close my eyes
In RememberanceIn Remembrance
Therein lies this emptiness
That simply wades through veins, festering
And spreading to every inch of the body
Where no one can see but choose to
And I long for the words to find
A way to simply scrape the surface
But they disintegrate before exposure
To a mind so consumed and devastatingly
Vacant where we were meant to spark
And create this growing life
To bring to a world where most want to sweep
Embarrassments and difficulties under
No meter or rhyme can clean it up
When something is indescribable
As the flickering elephant in the room
But even still my smile is sewn, my lips
All I know is the patience for inevitability
Because the world is temporary and
To drop anchor here is suicide for those
Who cannot swim amidst valueless waves of
But as the minute hand skitters the time steps
And I feel it slip into an abyss of abstractions
The world stands still for a split millennia of
Falling tears and stilled breath as I feel you for a
Within the Drum Within the Drum
The copper crept from within, a slow oozing trail staining its way. The notion that something wasn't quite right startled her awake. It was dark out still and she felt it weighing her down, a claustrophobic blanket of restriction. She reached up with soft fingertips, confused to graze a sticky path up her neck. The rough trail on her skin introduced a precipice of acceptance and the recollection of the doctor's warning. A lightning bolt hit and jolted her body out of its sleeping fold and into a tense knot. Turning her head slowly she waited for the next strike as the rockets burst in her head.
A Teaspoon For DrowningI visit many deviant profiles for writers and think to myself, "That could be me. They are so put together. Their writing just screams I AM ME! So little words, so many emotions. Truly beautiful and wonderful in a sparkly blender of Hellz yes!"
Fuck. Testing testing .where is your voice?
Not over here.
Venom Veracity Venom Veracity
I drink a cup of coffee, the aroma of a sigh enveloped by my skin. A tranquil moment. Pensive.
Perhaps if I had known that he would drag her away by the wrists, I might have skittered along the time steps. Avoiding the sparkling stars, their sharp edges never to slice her forearms. The crimson congealing to my skin, so chafed. Bleeding rubies.
Some secrets scuttle into the cracks. And words cannot survive the violence of the mutilation. The clenched jaw, starving screams. I carried the naïveté of her in a pen, ebony splashes dancing. When the water refuted the stars, she lost balance. Catch her.
Held in splintered animosity, the grin of victory scal
The AshesNo one can touch us anymore. You must have not known or else you would be here with me. Right?
Our world is burning
The song is beautiful. It reaches out and grasps my dying fingers. Like a Polaroid, the emotions slowly come into focus, colors and details getting more and more brilliant
I begin to cry. How do I show you? My words have died and they are decaying within me. My tears are ink, and they drop to the burning world, stained and unrecognizable to any who cared to take a look. If I had been able to show you, would then you have stayed for me?
I screamed, the sky r i p p l e d
You didnt notice. You have forgotten how to look up.
You just never cared like I always did
Listening, watching, waiting
Dawns PreludeRetreat is quiet and swift. I sit up, soft sheets falling around my hips as I blink blue depths, ever staring in the distance. Like the sparklers' story, it is fading before my eyes with sparks dying, though I saw its brilliance but moments ago. Stumbling out of bed in a daze, I try to grasp hold of Times retreating veil. He is too fast for me.
I must find the pieces of my dream. Each spark of it slipped out of consciousness and between the cracks of reality in mere seconds. Tearing at the earth, I stretch and reach, longing to skim the tips of my fingers along their rippling frames. The ritual of it all consumes my waking moments.
But before I know it, the sun spins her dance among the clouds, finally taking her bow into the horizon. She retreats into the waking realm as the stars take their cue. They open the gates and the obsidian waters cascade over the sky, trickling onto my world. I look to the ground again, my dream faintly glowing as sparks crackle and leap in
Requiem A muted landscape sits beneath the dark heavens. You step upon it, a scream sewn into your lips. The thread burns.
You are running, but why? For what is it that you seek? What do you hope to accomplish?
But you cannot answer these questions can you? You were the one that took the needle to your lips.
The moon is solid, unmoving. You thank God it has ceased its descent of drowning in the water. Perhaps then you can catch up. The wind stumbles alongside you, losing strength, a frightening thought. Why are you running?
If only your skin would slide off and let you fly. But you are contained, restricted: a mirror to yesterday. Now there is no time. She suffocated whilst fate outlined her neck in gnarled fingers. Dont watch, just run.
Denial is simply the façade of reality who ba
The WeakeningGrief of gray, the silent trespasser
Descends with splintered wings
Their beat a rhythmic epidemic
A scratching within my being
Once impassioned with yearning
The framework for our own lives
As we tread somewhere in the middle
Between the seasons evolving intellect
Now all is the mask of Façade
Through these drowning eyes
As desire and beauty diminish
Cutting oxygen of the souls language
Loss amidst the tranquil second
While the lifeless gray scars within
Severing lifelines to my passions
Oh sorrow, if I only
July 15, 1897
"No! No, no, no! The note is 'F', not 'A'! Preform the song correctly the first time and don't disappoint me any further."
"Start back at the top. For every mistake you make you will repeat the song that many times over until you can finish the song without making a single error."
Abiding his mother's orders, Cyril continued to play his beloved violin. Although he loved playing the violin, he didn't particularly care for his mother's harsh words and punishments. Cyril didn't want to disappoint her, so he continued to play.
"Cyril! The note on the measure is 'F'! How much mired do you wish to anger me!?" His mother scowled and spoke with disdain.
"I'm s-sorry.. I'm trying, I really am! See?" Cyril tried to play the song again, but was interrupted by his enraged mother.
"No, you don't 'try' to play correctly. You will play correctly. You're a noble. You shouldn't be such a disappointment. Nobleman are supposed to set an example amongst the common p
Slender - Urban Angel, Archer Part 8
Archer could feel it in Smiler’s grasp as she almost clung onto him, the sense of fear. It was a fear Archer knew of once himself. But he also knew there was no sense to try and stand up to Offender. Yet Archer had and idea and looked at Smiler, urging her to let go of him. As she reluctantly did Archer moved towards Offender with a somewhat relaxed posture and stopped at a fairly safe conversation distance.
If he can’t fight, he can try reasoning… at least.
“As far as I know about you Offender. Doesn’t she have to take your rose for you to… you know?” He drifted. Offender smirked and teleported right before Archer, causing Archer in instinctively step back a few times.
“Fuck her silly?~ Well she DID touch it, and that’s good enough for me.~” Offender pointed out cheerfully. Archer shot a frown back at Smiler who shrugged innocently with a sheepish look plastered on her face. She knew Archer was annoyed she didn’t
MonsterSince you were a child
you have been checking your wardrobes and under your beds for monsters
But what you don't know that there already is a monster in your life
Always following you
Always with you
Until you die
I guess you don't know what I'm talking about right now
We humans forget that there's a monster inside all of us
Locked in a cage in your head
For the right moment for you to snap and break open the cage for it so it can take control
That monster is our insanity
A raging beast that is inside of us all
But one day cage will break
And the beast will be released for it to rampage
in flesh and bloodHe finds her unassumingly. She's just standing there, cheeks ruddy, bundled in a forest green jacket lined with fake—he thinks—fur. He finds her, hands in pockets, feet atop the grass. The light that floods the panes of her face casts dark shadows beneath her eyes and along her jaw and he thinks for a moment that she might be kind of beautiful.
"Why are you standing before the Eiffel Tower and looking so sad?"
Her head snaps. He counts, one, two, three, seconds, and then she turns her face upward toward the monument in front of the two. They are alone. She doesn't say anything and then she's saying something and he has to turn his attention from the angles of her face to her brown, brown, brown eyes.
"Do you think it's lonely?" Of course not, he thinks. Of course not.
But all he can utter is no as he stares up at it. When she asks him why he sputters and turns to face her again, and sh
Creepypasta: Pretty Little ThingsCreepypasta: Pretty Little Things
Isn’t it funny how the things that tickle our imaginations as children seem terrifying in perspective when we grow, and vice versa? Even time itself, which seems naught but a blessing to a child, appears increasingly ravaging and crippling to an adult through its bastard offspring, “age”. Eventually it is so akin to the grim specter of Death itself that it turns our bones to ash and, except in extraordinary cases, erases all memory we ever lived. But I am above such things. I have lived for all times and for all ages, and all because of Theresa.
Theresa is a doll of the porcelain variety, although that is like saying that the revolver which was used to assassinate Archduke Ferdinand and kicked off World War I was .32 in calibre. What I’m trying to say is that just thinking of Theresa as a doll is to miss the underlying subtext of what she represents. To illustrate my point, I found Theresa in my bathtub when I was filling it wit
What Comes Out of the Shadows I was always afraid of the basement.
My parents chalked it up to what they called “post-moving paranoia” or something like that. I could only remember that the basement of the new house we moved to filled me with a chilling, dark feeling. I never knew why it bothered me so much.
Even my parents never really went down there. The previous owners had left a ton of stuff down there, and if it had been any other house I’d have been down there searching for anything interesting. I couldn’t go into the basement here though. Not in this house. The basement seemed like its own territory, and you didn’t want to trespass on its territory.
The house itself was nice. My room was small and there was a dent in the wall, but it was nice. My parents had a room that connected to a bathroom, and the kitchen was near their room while the living room was closer to mine. It was a small, cozy house, but
Creepypasta: Bloody MaryCreepypasta: Bloody Mary
The Bloody Mary ritual is probably the most popular method of summoning a spirit among casual ghost hunters. No one really believes in it, and when someone does see something odd after the incantation is performed it is attributed to the sensory deprivation of being in a darkened room. But maybe if I explain the origins of the story you will be a bit more receptive to the truth.
Mary was a waif of a 16 year-old girl who lived in the countryside of Scotland during the Wars of Scottish Independence which occurred in the tail end of the 1200s. Mary saw none of the war however, and for that matter barely ever saw the world outside her family’s shamble of a dwelling except when she was allowed to. You see, her parents were obsessively worried for Mary’s safety. She was their only child, and because they loved her more than life itself, they forbade her from living a normal life so as to keep her protected. They just never wanted to lose her. Ironically,
Ritual of Death Sometime in the 90’s, a group of children were reportedly attacked outside their school building. The school was nearly vacant, and the kids were only there for an after-school club. They told police that they were held prisoner inside while a creature prowled around outside. One boy and a girl tried to make a run for it, and insisted that they were attacked by a creature with many faces.
The boy told them that the creature bragged about having 1000 faces, and offered to show them every one of the faces it had. They both refused to look as the creature’s head began to change. The boy reported that they stood there, facing the direction opposite the creature with their eyes closed, for the longest time until the creature had finished. It then whispered a few words to the boy before disappearing.
The boy only remembers one thing from the words the creature had said, and he called it the “Ritual of Death”. Po
My Dearest BetrayalMy Dearest Betrayal,
Along your spine I zip open your flesh, peeling it back from the muscle and bone. Breathing heavily upon your utter nakedness, I watch the uncontrollable quivering as my poisoning breath scalds as dry ice.
A screaming monster claws its way up your throat, tattered shreds of your gullet are left in its wake. Flailing in the putrid fumes of agony, your yellow eyes search. But there is nobody there for you anymore. A sea of writhing bodies bump and flop against your own, unaware. Encapsulating screams have carved themselves into your irises as the selfish world turns topsy-turvy like a drunkard consumed in his own self pity.
The hair stands on the back of your sweating neck. As the claustrophobic drowning dissipates, a frost crawls to the ends of the earth congealing the flow of your veins. Solitude is now the scumm
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