Bloody RhymeOne, two, buckle my shoe.
It should've been me. Not her. Me.
Three, four, break down the door.
So many questions, but why, why, why?
Five, six, she's next in my mix!
I'd give anything. That's what I'd told the doctor. Blood, a kidney, a new heartwhatever it takes.
Seven, eight, piece of cake!
Three minutes and forty-two seconds. That's all. I left the room for three minutes and forty-two seconds. But he only needed three minutes and forty-one.
Nine, ten, bye bye Jen!
Bloody murder, bloody baker, bloody butcher, they said.
Eleven, twelve, I'll add to my shelve!
Flatline, they said, nothing they can do, they said.
Thirteen, fourteen, I'm getting quite keen!
I'll kill him, and then I'll kill me too. Because its my fault, and I'm guilty, guilty, guilty!
Fifteen, sixteen, is this the sister of that bean?
I'm the trap, and he's the mouse, I'm the bait, and he's the trapper.
Seventeen, eighteen, she couldn't have see
I'M SO BUSY Sorry! >///< I know I said I'd do some stuff, like "oh I'm doing this" or "sign me up," but then I didn't do anything. I really am sorry! I probably will get around to do whatever I said I'd do, but it will probably be late And this also means I will be unable to commit myself or participate in much anything anymore on here (for now)...
The reason I'm so busy: THERE ARE SO MANY REASONS. ;u;
"A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities." Someone
I won't bother you with a long list, but to sum it up... School, a few auditions for this and that, moping about the guy-who-shall-not-be-named, projects, life, and OTHER peoples' lives. Oh, and I was thinking of where to get a job. I kind of always wanted to work at the movie theater...:u
my face is in so much pain right now and this is after I ate my self pity ice cream //sob
Let's go CRAZY, CRAZY, CRAZY,
'Til we see th
Say YesIf I were to fall,
Eyes shut tight,
Would you catch me?
The long nights crying,
Nightmares and regret
Scratching at the door,
Would you say I'm beautiful?
In sickness or in health,
Pale in bed,
Would you bring me flowers?
When I'm insecure,
Trembling like a dog,
Balanced on unsteady legs,
Would you stay by me?
When my love hurts,
Too volatile to approach,
Would you still hold my hand?
Because if you say yes,
Then I think I'd like
To love you.
Coming HomeCherry-red boots walking in a garden of white,
A long, lost path to home.
Marigolds in the spring and jasmines in the winter,
In my hands I hold a beautiful bouquet,
Lashed together with love.
Down the alabaster walkway,
knock twice on the door,
And find the key from under the welcome mat.
"Mom, I'm home,"
And lock the door shut.
Take the blue vase on the counter,
and wash away empty memories.
Halfway full with frigid water,
And let the flowers soak.
The creak of scuffed wooden planks.
The lasting cinnamon aroma etched in these walls.
The aged warmth only home, sweet, home provides.
The vintage varnish in the ever-short furniture.
The sultry taste of resentment in my throat.
She lies on the bed,
Frail and empty and l o s t.
Taking her pale hand,
I stare into her bone-china eyes,
Waiting for a meek response,
To tell me she was still here.
She wasn't allowed to die,
"I'm going away for a while,
Mom, but I wanted to see you
Just one more time before I
An Artist's EpiphanyA tumultuous dance
of feverishly-crazed aspiration
leading to a splendorous cacophony
marred by “imperfection”
in the creator's eyes.
Hours, days, years
and it all comes ricocheting
off the walls
when you feel the sudden
It's not good enough.
The perversely comforting routine
of chronically scarring the looming
alabaster canvas divebombs,
coming to a spasmodic halt;
All that for an erratic,
Daily life has lost its spice,
it is only a melody without music,
a group of disheartened soldiers
pitiful of the self-induced toxic of loss.
But you are only to arrive at
so you return, back
to escape velocity
and you try again.
A Coward's WordsIn these walls,
am I safe?
From the dystopia
I won't listen
because I'm buried
in these words,
a stranger's voice
An epiphany of
resounding strokes, a
leaves of relentless majesty
For when I wake up
Look out from this inky cage,
I see and smell and taste and hear and feel
the hu r t
ha t e
So I shrink back
behind the words
not to come out 'till
the sunset morning.
Dear CeliaThe tension is thick. I stare down at my once icy glass of Coke, clutching it, letting rivulets of water run down my hands and hoping it will cool me off. Everything about me is boiling; my long-suppressed anger escalating, climaxing, and blazing. I feel it searing at my skin, pining for something to burn. He feels it too.
Our food has arrived, but neither of us have touched it. We're just sitting here. This stranger and I.
I make no attempt to break the silence. We could sit here in this damned cafe all night, for all I care. I'm already volatile. Just the slightest slip of his tongue, and I won't hesitate to explode. I hope the shrapnel will strike where it really hurts.
He clears his throat, hoping that I will look up, but I don't. "Do you just want to take the food home, then?"
"No." I refuse to meet his eyes, because I know that if I do, then I'll have to accept that my eyes are the same.
"Celia," he says, desperate. "I'm sorry."
Sorry? What does sorry mean? Does it mean that year