Err, it's kind of long. Excuse the shitness, I'm not exactly the most eloquent of folk.


God, I’m parched. This room’s making me feel ill. Those yellow lights, those synthetic plastic seats. I bet I look ill, too. Everybody does here. Everybody looks jaundiced and cursed in this room.

“Here sweetheart, have something to drink. I got you one of those sodas from the vending machine downstairs – is orange okay?” a nurse bustles in, chattering and straightening things up as she goes. I barely register her as I mutely accept the flimsy aluminium can of artificial orange. I blinked at her, whispered a hoarse thanks and downed it in one go, crushing it afterwards.

I bet that clock’s broken, I bet I’ve really been here for 3 days and she’s already gone, she’s left without me. Stop, stop thinking about it. Shut your eyes, get some rest. But I can’t stop thinking about it. The scenes are only more vivid, more realistic behind my eyelids. Screw them tighter, you don’t want to see that. But I can’t stop myself, I can’t stop thinking about it, about her, about how uncomfortable I was – and am, in this hard plastic seat.

But I’m there, now. I’m there and I can see her flitting from idiot to idiot from my vantage point in the corner. I’m holding one of those infamous red plastic cups, standing away from the swarming masses of teenage hedonism; eyes darting, following her. I don’t belong here – I know it, they know it. I don’t want to be here! She dragged me here – she’d always had some strange fascination at what went on at these parties. God knows she was thrilled to receive an invitation, at long last – regardless of the casualness of the offer. She didn’t realise he didn’t really mean it; it was an empty invitation from an empty person. She can’t see that she doesn’t belong there either; she’s too bright, too brilliant, too vivid, too intense for these vapid sheep. I’m not the only one – they don’t think she belongs there either. She just hasn’t noticed yet, and they’re too dazzled to do anything about it quite yet. She’s bounding towards me now, towing him along.

“Hey, you can go home, okay? I’m leaving for the – the um, the afterparty...I’m leaving, okay? Go, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.” She’s trying to sound serious, to sound sober, but she looks...ridiculous. She’s draped over him, hiccupping and giggling at nothing.

I tried to protest. “What? No – let go of her, I’m taking her home. Come on, I’m taking you home. You’re in no state to go – Karen!”
But she’s not listening, and he won’t have any of it. He’s slurring something to me now, but I’m just looking at her and I can’t stop.

“Just get out; we all know you shouldn’t be here. Just drive your mom’s car back home, freak. She’s coming with me.”
I’m waiting for her to jump into consciousness, into my defence – but she just giggles and nods. He proceeds to leave with her, but not before turning around and staring at me with a mix of triumph and disdain.

Everybody’s back to swaying frantically, mindlessly to a generic beat – a heaving sweaty mass of bodies and I have no reason to stay anymore. I walk until I find my car, breathing in clean, clear air. I expect I’ll hear some kind of “wild” story the next day, for things to change once she became part of the crowd. But tonight isn’t the time, and right now all I need to do is drive home, get into bed and go to sleep.

I drove slowly, carefully. It was dark and I wasn’t exactly in the best state, or the most confident driver. It wasn’t long before I saw it, the two cars crumpled against each other almost comically like fragile metal toys.

I recognised them. One was one of my neighbours’ – a man called Mr Prest who lived on his own. And the second one was one I’d seen before at school. A shiny, ostentatious thing belonging to the most popular boy in school.

The boy who left with my best friend in tow.

I reached a screeching halt, running towards them. I could see her in the passenger seat, breathing raggedly, shallowly.

Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” A hand shook my shoulder gently and my eyes flew open. Talk about a rude awakening. It took me a while to catch my breath, and longer for my heart to stop skittering, jumping at that horrible erratic pace.

“Oh sorry, did I make you jump? Gosh, you’re just a little bird, aren’t you? Do you want me to get you something to eat from the canteen? Maybe you should head home, you look drained.” I felt smothered, but dismissed it as the nurse’s attempts to be friendly.

I shook my head. “No thanks. Is she alright, is she okay? When can I take her home?” I stuttered a little, tripping over my own words.

The nurse gave me what I assume she thought was a sympathetic look, but just came off looking insincere and patronising. “No, sweetie, I’m afraid it’s not looking good. They’ve just moved her to intensive care, while you were sleeping.”

I felt a tiny stab of guilt, as if I should have been there with her in the operating theatre, should have gone with her to the ICU. “Please can you take me there? I’d like to wait outside.”

The nurse didn’t say anything, and simply led me to another chair in another soulless room, to wait outside a glass window which separated me from her. I wasn’t sure if I preferred this more, being able to see her, watch over her – or if I simply felt more wretched at having to watch her in this state, looking so lifeless. All evidence of her life was beeping away on that flat black screen.

Beep, beep, beep. It had a faint, but steady rhythm and provided me with the slightest comfort. Of course, it wasn’t to last, was it?

I don’t know what happened then, what kind of trigger was set off in her. But I did know it wasn’t kind.
The beeping of her heartbeat jumped into a screaming, jumping, pulsating, erratic rhythm that scared me to my very core. I could feel that cursed rhythm thumping away as if it was on my own skin, hear the hurried commands and near-screams produced by the doctors and nurses alike.

Clear!

Nothing.

Clear!

Flatline.

posted Mar 26, 2010

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Oh well this is for the one I love ... and yeah fuck u!!!!
There aren´t words…you stole them
You are stealing them… again, again
I´m living one hundred times for you… I die every time
I think you are happy now, proud?
I´m seriously not breathing … or am I wishing it?
We all know the answer
It´s getting cold, I wonder why I don´t care
Ruin the day and happiness
if I don´t have a day… Are you going to get me one?
I´m half looking at you
The parallel sound is coming back
The Fear and the Sorrow, are saying hi to me
I´m really polite
Ps: is getting close

posted Mar 27, 2010

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I feel it easier to write to people. I can't find any of my good poems. They're buried deep in the soul of my computer.
Today is 6 months, Miss you Jessica<3

posted Mar 27, 2010

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"The Room"-- by me

White walls close in on me, the whole room bespeaking of integrity, sanctity- and overall an inane sense of sterility. But it’s never long before I ruin this peace, making the whole room an illustration of me. Every room has a story right? Well the story behind this room is sleepless nights full of trepidation, perdition, night terrors and unconscious self harm, days of stinking depression where I lie in bed senselessly all day, projecting my fears onto the plain, white walls.

The room is not always so grim however. There are days when I resurrect my room, it becoming open, white and sacred once more. There are days when my room becomes a sanctuary- from my little brothers’ pounding feet, their play fighting a point of constant exasperation for me. There are days when I hide under the covers, my pillow clutched close to shield me from the enraged cries spurting from my Father, the accusations of failure and disappointment pouring out from his mouth and into my very soul.

Then there are the days when it becomes sterile once again… When the food doesn’t enter my mouth and there are no calories to be counted. There are numbers everywhere. There is writing everywhere. Every surface becomes saturated with my self-inflicted propaganda, until the walls are stripped bare again, white and aseptic.

It’s all held in those white walls, the screams at night, my parents’ fighting, my brothers’ nagging and my sister’s judgement…

And every time I’ve tried and failed to escape, the white walls hold me closer, suffocating me, hating me, mocking me- knowing that deep down I am not strong enough to be real, so I remain a prisoner, in a constant loop of mediocrity- not quite human enough to be real, emotional or noticed.

posted Mar 27, 2010

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I looked around the corner just in time to see Larry kiss my brother hard on the mouth. I gasped, too loudly apparently. Mike pulled away and looked at me directly in the eyes, a look of pure horror on his face. I had no choice; I ran as fast as I could back home, rammed the keys into the lock, slammed the door shut and ran up to my room. A few seconds later, another set of keys jangled by the door. I knew there was nowhere to go so I simply sat on my bed, waiting. I was expecting him to be angry, to hit me and call me awful names. In a way I wanted him to, to express his feelings and to show emotion. He always had a stiff upper lip as if he didn’t want anyone to come within arm’s length of him. He had a shell, a protective barrier. He opened the door.

^^^^ This is a small part of a novella I'm currently writing.

posted Mar 27, 2010

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I don't actually know what I was trying to achieve here and I normally don't write anything so depressing. =( Here it is anyways.
___________________________________________________


A finger lingers

on a mouse button worn with the same blurred fingerprint
and a well-meaning computer screen attempts to illuminate a face in starburst only
finding
failure.

Studies show that darkness contributes to depression; which leads to self mutilation; which leads to suicide; (or so the online article said) but she lets it stay because it’s the only thing that
envelopes her in a blanket of
security, and the weighty knowledge that facades are no longer necessary.

(as it was in the beginning, in the end, and ever shall be-)

clickclickclick

[Restarted without shutting down properly in prior session. This may result with memory loss and/or damaged files. Would you like to run a check on all of your disk drives? Y/N]

posted Apr 16, 2010

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he is there beneath you
arms out, ready to catch
but he needs to gain strength
so you'll have to fall sometimes

but one day you'll jump
and never touch the ground
then you'll know...
you'll just know...



i always come up with stupid little things like this but arent sure what to do with them now.
if i expand the idea they usual just turn crap :P

xxxxxx

posted Apr 16, 2010

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so-so-sorry

i'm sorry i was easy
i'm sorry that i still care
i'm sorry that you left me
because you were never there
i'm sorry that i told you
...all those nights i cried
i'm sorry for my questions
i'm sorry that you lied
i'm sorry for our doubts
and all those lonely nights
i'm sorry for those dreams
that shone like city lights
i sorry that i crave you
and you shoved me aside
i'm sorry i approached you
...and let you in so far
i'm sorry that i ran with you
'til you left me in the dark
i'm sorry that i kissed you
even though i never did
i'm sorry for what will happen
the strangers we'll become
but i'm not sorry that i met you
...i'm just sorry that you're gone

posted Apr 27, 2010

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I like this one!

posted Apr 28, 2010

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He tried to figure her out with those glances and glares, but he never did see that beauty that was always there.

posted May 4, 2010

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i have a whole blog of things i write. theunrequitedchronicles.blogspot.com/

here's one for you, i hope it lifts you up at this time.

I Am Here

Take my hand,
Because I’m holding it out to you.
I don't want you to feel alone.

Open your eyes,
Because I’m smiling at you.
You should know, there's no reason to be sad.

Come closer to me,
Because to embrace is to ignite a fire.
Let's not try to give more than what's in our power.

History doesn't matter
Because the past is in the past.
There's no good living in fear,
So be free.

I’d like you to take my hand
Because I’m holding it out to you.
I am here and I won't leave.

I am here.
All you need to do is ask.
Anything for you,

Remember that.

posted May 4, 2010

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This is something I wrote for a friend who said "write me something that is based off of la yeux" which is french for "The eyes" or something to that effect.

Escape into the gray night
and stow your body in our hideaway.
La yeux sil vous plait.
Let me see your marble beauties.
They sparkle and shine in my mind.
We're so close.
What will happen in this silent dark?

posted Jun 3, 2010

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Blue Linen
the threads are fraying like the edges of my mind
they span out across oceans of wonder
under blue skies and over warm skin
they twist and snag on years of use
they thin as breaths of lust and love blow through them
they cling for dear life to each other through another wet heartbreak
they stain and weaken
they travel
they break
the strands of blue linen

posted Jun 7, 2010

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i wrote this as soon as i got home on the day we was told the news of a student in our year had died suddenly, it was one of the worst days at school, ever.

A still morbid day,
Walking to school surrounded by the dampness of the morning.
Unprepared for the news about to hit me and my peers.
Lucy sadly passed away last night.

Silence.
Just silence, no movement except the opening and gawping of mouths.
Flashbacks started, just the day before, i walked behind her brunette locks and her laughing soul.
A young girl like her could bring a smile that could brighten any day.

Some cried, some screamed, some gasped and some made no reaction at all.
Everything seemed so still, the level of noise was at its minimum and the trees showed no signs of its swaying motion
Lucy, a beautiful precious soul
People drowned in the sympathy for her family and closest friends.

Just to think, that could of been you or me,
Think of the depression that would bring.
Realise now, life is too short.
Forgive your enemies and live life to the full with no regrets but with lots of love.

posted Jun 7, 2010

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I love writing poems and I have a few but I think this is my favorite. It is pretty short:

TIme

Sometimes too quick.
Sometimes too slow.

But everytime I feel that i need to go,
life quickly stops.

I needed time to last forever,
but I knew that it was over.

We have so much time on our hands,
but I have given up.

I was screaming for more,
but time was over,
and I was over.
I was only left with my fear.

posted Jun 8, 2010

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I wrote this paragraph after going to a concert and getting a headache, so i retreated to the balcony with a friend and watched the people. when i got home i wrote this small bit of writing.

She watched it for a while, ‘it’ being the mass of jumping, shoving, pulsating bodies below them. Together, they were a beautiful and brutal mob of children, revelling in the sounds and lights and action and euphoria of the thing, but if you focused on one, on one child, you saw a particular, pathetic person being pushed and bruised and hit and screamed at from all sides. She was one of them earlier on in the night, and she had enjoyed it. The pushes were grinds, the bruises, a side effect, the hits, just strokes and the screams were undoubtedly laughter.

it sounds out of context and unfinished but yah.

posted Jul 5, 2010

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TREASURE CHEST

In everything I read, there's over 1000 hidden messages. They are hidden for a purpose in a way where it makes you look at the bigger picture. It's what you see in the inside that matters the most. Picture this, a treasure chest FILLED with gold, diamonds, and jewels. It's worth so much, it can make you happy, it's precious, it's beautiful and most of all...it's always HIDDEN, in a secret place. It's not given to you or just anyone. It's hidden and it will become someone's destiny to finally find it.

This hidden treasure will be the talk of the town. Stories and rumors about it will go around. People will go on journeys to find this treasure chest but most of them will give up. The beginning of anyone's journey will bring them excitement and joy. Some will come very close to finding it, but will never be able to have it. Some just make it farther than others, but that only happens if they keep trying. This treasure chest will also cause pain, heartache, and fights. It can destroy relationships and friendships but it can also create stronger relationships and friendships. See where I'm going? What you make of your journey and experiences are all up to you.

In the end, there will be that one person that will find the treasure. All of the hard work, sweat, tears, and lonely nights will all be worth it. Why? Because that person never gave up, that person believed it would work out, that person fought for it, and because that person had a true heart. What will that person do with all of the treasure??? You tell me ;).

posted Jul 8, 2010

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Started a blog for my current story I'm writing.
There's already tons of posts, so it's long, so I don't expect anyone to read it. But ya know, if you're bored or something:
forgottenloveletters.blogspot.com/

posted Jul 8, 2010

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well, here's something i wrote like, two summers ago, and it's a bit cynical, but it's one of my favourites. XD

Stifle that voice-
destroy those honey vocal chords
so that they resonate
scratchy, smoky tunes
and pretend you're amy winehouse
joss stone or duffy
and say you saw her lovely face
before it was ever
plastered on myspace
knowing your voice was destined
for sultry,
pill popping greatness.

shoot up and keep dreaming.

posted Jul 8, 2010

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For some reason I used to find it easy to write like a suicidal teen. My 15 year old self has written loads of poems about cutting myself (which I have never done) and I found a whole folder on my computer about them! Pretty strange. This one was actually for English.. we had read the Bell Jar. Apologies for the non-capitals etc.

Intricate patterns
watch how the line
twists from the point
making it mine
beautiful inscriptions
to those that i love
personal messages
when i fly above
my pale hieroglyphics
i know what they mean
hidden away
by a troubled teen
forever I'll bear you
my beautiful sin
the trapped memories
carved in my skin

I am currently working on a not so depressed poem for a poetry competition :) I've only got a tiny bit into it. Can anyone critique this please? Good or bad, I'd love to know :D


Play. Stop. Rewind.

Play. Stop. Rewind.

It starts with a Hi
and it ends with a laugh
Actually...no
It ends with a flatline
Or does it all start with the flatline?

Hi
It’s me
I’m going to be late

posted Jul 8, 2010

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smokingonanemptystomach.blogspot.com

i have a 'selected writing' section on my sidebar, as well as a link to my poetry chapbook and e-books

posted Jul 9, 2010

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very beautiful

posted Sep 30, 2010

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My short stories are so depressing. The protagonist is always psychologically unsound and someone always dies.

posted Oct 1, 2010

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if there's no tragedy, it's not interesting.
happy stories are for children.
multiple people normally die in mine.

posted Oct 1, 2010

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beautiful!
but "the eyes" in french is "les yeux" and not "la yeux". "Les yeux" is plural, and "L'oeil" is singular.

posted Oct 2, 2010

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Milky girl has everything but when she speaks of it
Everything is half of what it is
And when milky girl doesn’t get what she wants
She takes off her white night dress (her only dress?)
And wraps herself up in rope
She draws scars on her legs
And threatens herself
She says

I know. Ill be a witch.

But this is where it gets shaky
How can one be a witch if
they cant tell night from day

posted Oct 3, 2010

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I've written a few things recently...

Poor Girl.

My words are being stolen as I speak.
They're bound and gagged
bound to be heard by someone
gagging at the thought they won't
and the follow up:
The pasture seen in my dreams
is now just a concrete jungle
Mowed and plowed;
cold cement
Founded by cold sea men
The waves that crashed up
turned into high fives
like the jersey numbers with balls flying by
and again being stolen
your balls though, no one wants those
sqwirming at the taste
the child your playing games with
she can't last another second
missing the rope she falls down and cries
her scraped knees bleed out my pen.
and my words are again, being stolen as I speak.


&


Anxious Brains.

We are just broken people
Spread bones on breaded bodies
Hearts filled with a cool-aid concoction
Of sticky heart felt messes
At scenes of glass shard floors and
Lip-locked doors
Painted face-first love
Marked with the mass made media filled formulas,
Bursting at the seams of my pea coat.
Noted varieties of corn flower daisies
Pitch fork poesies and
Long awaited roses
Passing back handed compliments every chance we can get.
Moths resting upon anxiety
Locked away in a closet
Seeping out only to force feed heart attacks,
Through golden laced tubes of
Our nocturnal lives
We will live through love
And the pumping fruit gusher no one wanted.

posted Oct 3, 2010

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posted Oct 3, 2010

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Sometimes, I want to be his girlfriend, be the friction in his jeans. I want to feel his fingers on the knots of my spine, amid the river of my hair. I want to stamp a kiss in the centre of his palm. There are lots of things I want- but what I want most is to be the girl he sees when he looks at me.

thebuttonowl.tumblr.com/

posted Oct 5, 2010

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Thank you everyone for contributing to this thread, it's existed for about a year now.
I really love reading all the thoughts jumbled up in your minds.

posted Oct 6, 2010

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Exit Wounds.

I shut the door behind me, turning my key in the lock, for possibly the last time. It locks, with a hollow click that until now never struck me as what it always was; empty. The three tumblers click into place, pistons firing, closing up, closing me out. I turn, and walk down the well worn steps, painted bright red by a past owner, now grey, barren concrete, the only traces of their former glory found around the edges. Nobody steps there. My feet fall in the same places that they have for years now, these steps taken daily, for years on years. Thirteen, in fact. I am on the sidewalk. The sidewalk where I grew up, the sidewalk where I used to draw rainbows with chalk and wait for daddy to come home. And I see the cab. The cab, with my luggage already loaded in the trunk, my one suitcase of things untainted, things still clean from your influence. It seems meagre, somehow, that my life has been compressed in to one case of brown, cracked leather and weak metal framework. I turn to face the cab driver, wrapped up in a woolly scarf, and moving some disgusting, yellowed gum, between his equally disgusting, yellowed teeth. His unshaven chin is as brazen as his eyes, which glare at me with impatience, under toned with malice. I get in the backseat, sliding over the cracked vinyl seat that is a New York cab. “Where ya’ off to, miss?”. I hardly hear him. It feels like my neurons are slowed down, as I register the words, their meaning, the answer, how to answer, which muscles to move, which words to form. Which Tumblers to click and which pistons to fire. He is looking at me expectantly, and I’m so unprepared. So unprepared for the two little words that I am about to pronounce, so that when my lips manage to spill them out, a jumble of syllables, barely intelligible, I am more surprised than he.
“The Airport.”
And an after thought:
“please.”
Well, mom always told me to be polite.
And I can see her at the window, as clear as if it were real, as clear as if there wasn’t only dust, old furniture and memories behind the faded curtains. I can see her waving goodbye to me, as she had so many other times. But not this time.
The cab pulls away from the curb, jolting over the pothole that always threw me when I learnt to drive. I don’t even notice. I look down at my hands, safely wrapped in woollen gloves, clutching the little key that my parents decided I could copy at age twelve. I had been so proud. I had felt so grown up. My own key. I hadn’t left home without it since my twelfth birthday. Down the street. Down down down we go, past the park, where I played when I was seven, where I walked with boys when I was fourteen, and where I drank when I was twenty one. Down the street again, and around the corner. Past the general store where we bought the lock for our front door, the lock that my key fits. The lock where I can make the tumblers click and the Pistons fire. Past the library where I got my first library card when I was six, Lost my first library card age twelve and couldn’t afford to pay my fees at age eigteen. Three blocks more, past the school, that I Started at age 3, jumped a year age six, and another at age nine. I remember, in math class, I could never make the tumblers click or the pistons fire.



[Nowhere near my best work, but all my others are much longer]

posted Oct 6, 2010

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I suffer from procrastination
And internet-fuelled masturbation
When I should be doing
My homework, not viewing
Hot porn from the great German nation.

posted Oct 8, 2010

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@Emma D

there's a song called Exit Wounds by The Script, it's really good, you should check it out

posted Oct 8, 2010

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For a 'rainbow' challenge. Not my best but my most recent formal-ish writing piece.

Delicate red carnations, ambrosia of the gods,
Drops amongst orange halos of the sun
The yellow of her hair, flaxen, splayed on
Green grass, stalks shyly tickle her icy cheek
Unassuming sea of blue, quietly, the jay sings
Violent violet of her dress, cast negative impressions
Of halcyon days, of purple skies, softly still she sleeps

posted Oct 10, 2010

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I'm not going to post anything here because I only write super long prose.
But there's loads of my stuff over at carachtair.wordpress.com and veerwilde.blogspot.com

If anyone ever fancies roleplaying or chatting about writing, especially fiction, then I find it's really good for the muse.

I'm not going to pick out particular bits of the stuff you've posted but some of you are very, very talented!
x

posted Oct 11, 2010

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you are so much more beautiful when your lips are shut
than when you are screaming and writhing in dirt for attention
(so i remain silent and watch)

i hate to see you so filthy
but you wear the soil like diamonds

posted Oct 12, 2010

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You should check out my blog that I post on regularly. It's bits and pieces of my life, random thoughts, and other such things. I've been told by people that it's quite good so I'm sure it would be worth your while to look it up. It's calastinia.blogspot.com
Here's a sample called "Home is where I am warm"

Let's think in terms of home. What are the main components of home? Is it the warmness of love or is it your favorite place on the couch or is it the address of the house you live in? Is it the feeling of togetherness? The feeling of being one with themselves? I am at home and even though I may not be happy I am home. I crawl towards the stars. I reach and I stretch and I fly. The stars. I want to touch them and then I will finally be home. Next to the fire. Stretching out and feeling the warmth. This feeling...

posted Oct 12, 2010

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this is an older piece called words. you can kind it on my blogs (the unrequited chronicles)
or (ready to whore) though i havent posted anything creative in quite some time.



Words

What do they mean?
What can they do for you ?
Empty promises, save for desire,
The want and need for it to be true.

It’s not enough.

When all you could ever wish for is impossible to you.

Fear in falling.
Feeling stuck,
But keeping yourself there all on your own.
Still all alone.

Protecting.

When all you want is to believe.

Hope and faith
When it comes, it goes.
And you let it go.
Holding onto your sanity.

Trying hard to stay levelled even at all.

Confused.
A living contradiction.
But how do you decide what your priorities are?

Knowing what it’s like for your heart to feel…


You Try to Find the Words, but You Stop Them Coming Out

posted Oct 13, 2010

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Thanks, I think I shall

posted Oct 14, 2010

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I got a short story published in a book that I'd like to put up, but it's 10 pages long and I no longer have the file saved on my computer because I wrote it about 5 years ago. But once I figure out how to upload it without having to retype the whole thing, I'll upload it.

posted Oct 16, 2010

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I'd love to read it.

posted Oct 27, 2010

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waiting for you, my heart a stone. smelling like metal, my skin is―probably my bones has just turned into steel.

signs of darkness coming with fleeting memories of past failures. now i'm lying here alone, staring at the empty side of the bed. tonight i shall dream and be among the stars of Cassiopeia. tonight i shall dream and touch the zenith of the eastern sky.

i write a lot in my blog vindavindasonata.blogspot.com/; hope you guys will have time to check it out and tell me what do you guys think:)

posted Nov 14, 2010

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Irresistible

As I was walking from one classroom to the next, everything felt so peaceful and calm. I was lost in the moment. Roses the size of my fist, no, larger than my fist, looked so inviting in the soft morning sunlight. I resisted the urge to walk over and pluck one off the bushes to caress the soft velvet petals with my fingers.Rich dark lips beside pale faded ones, pristine and untouched.

Faint and fleeting, it left as quickly as it came.

I have no idea where that came from. I swear, my writing's getting worse and worse.

posted Nov 17, 2010

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I write when I have time and inspiration of course. Mostly short one-shot stories with different themes (lots of times I get inspired by a song or something), but sometimes if I have a good idea I try to write some fanfiction in English (which is not my first language) but this doesn't occure that often.

posted Apr 5, 2011

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thecryingpumpkin.blogspot.com/

I have one on my blog, i'd really appricate some feedback it's not that good (unless i think not) nor is it one of my best but i'd be happy to show more if readers are interested in what I write!

posted Apr 5, 2011

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I am writing a book backwards. This is the end or the beginning, depending how you perceive it :')

I woke up, opened the curtains; the white light filled the room and washed away the darkness. I tore down the black photographs on my wall until they were empty, cut up all my dark clothes which used to be studded and imprinted with vile, loathsome memories and I was suddenly emancipated. Free from the threatening shadows of the night and it was day and this box was golden. I promised myself I would never again let my happy thoughts and desires, be clouded with dark distractions. What I will become is unknown to me, but I've been to the underworld and I shall never return.

We will all be free
To the bells of Au nom du père et du fils et du saint esprit.

Here's my blog too, I'm not brave enough to write anything on there yet though !!

clairejessicatighe.blogspot.com/
clairejessicatighe.blogspot.com/

posted Apr 5, 2011

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Translated it from german. Guess it's better in it's original language but...it works.

It's raining cats and dogs today- not quite how I imagine a sunny day. Not even how I imagine these negative experiences of such a day. Not even if sun shines though. Wind's blowing. The leaves make their way down to the wet ground. a girl is standing somewhere in this hurricane. She's wrapped up in a big blue coat, she's shouting. One can see she's been already waiting a long time.
It's cold. I'm freezing myself and get me one more jacket. The girl looks around. She looks up to my window. Probably she recognised me watching her some time. I feel like a voyeur. The one the girl seems to have waited for steps out of a shop. He walks towards the girl, a cigarette in his hand.
I hear music from the upper floor.
The boy and the girl discuss...he inhales the smoke if his cigarette, getting angrier and angrier. Through the opened window I get some words of their discussion, but I don't understand them though. The wind's became stronger, the rain's pouring down so loud on the wet ground.
Suddenly the girl cries- a long scream, full of pain and fear. She's falling onto the ground, the wet ground, just like the rain.
The boy laughs. Gets his knife back. Walks away. Silence.
I close my window.
Silence.
I haven't seen anything.
Silence.

This has NOT really happened to me, I just felt like writing some melodramatic shit.

posted Apr 5, 2011

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Kingsway (Open writing activity, my first draft that is based on the poem by Michael Turner)

Crossing over into
unknown territory,
I feel a bit lost
or in awe of my potential destination.
Driving along, I see many pedestrians
that carry themselves differently as myself.
Their perspectives influence mine as
some appear in
eccentric clothing or appear as if they take
political matters or environmental concerns to another level
with their lifestyles. They very
well could be something else but compared with the traffic flow, which is just as
congested everywhere else at
rush hour, it is a nice
change.

posted Apr 6, 2011

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The beginning of a short story/novella I've recently begun. It has yet to be titled:


Cross desperately pushed his mouth against his lovers, gasping heavily and gripping and wrapping his fingers into Antonys curly mane. Antony pulled away too strongly and noticed the angered tears barely spilling over Cross’ waterline. Cross nodded his head in disgruntled acceptance and shifted his position on the curb allowing Antony to see a gun imprint protruding through his cut off shorts. What the hell you doin? Antony breathed quietly.
Cross feigned a wired laugh, drug a shirt sleeve across stubborn tears and gingerly interlaced his right fingers with Antonys left.
I want you to know that I love you, Cross spoke. His gray eyes found Antonys topaz gems. I promise that the next life is ours.
He faintly touched his fingertips to the stone that hung about Antonys neck and gently relieved his grasp from the union. He ascended from the curb and walked slowly down the empty road leaving a confused Antony gazing after him and tracing his path.
Cross, Antony pleaded as he motioned to stand. No response. The dark figure was disappearing into the red-orange streaked Nevadan landscape.
Cross! he called hysterically. The figure was now inconceivable in the growing darkness.
A gunshot echoed wildly through the scene, ceasing all movement and chilling the air. Crowds of people began flooding from surrounding homes in a madness of curiosity and fear. Sirens that began as a soft uproar in the distance evolved to blaring wails. The quiet evening street was now a memory as commotion seized the night. Among all this, most failed to notice the pale faced adolescent knelt in the middle of the road, rocking and weeping incessantly while clutching desperately to the pale blue stone that hung precariously at the end of his chain.

posted Apr 26, 2011

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That's really sad. I've never experienced the death of a friend but just thinking about it makes me tear up. If you want different kinds of literary creations, I'm a member of this site called Writer's Cafe and it's quite awesome. You post your writing there and people can comment on them. Kind of like the Lookbook for writers. :) Here's my profile. writerscafe.org/rachielle/ Writing's been really a good way of venting for me, so I know how you feel.

posted Apr 26, 2011

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Oh, it was one of those afternoons. The kind that left you missing something you never really had. The kind of day when the leaves on the trees seemed to ignite with fervor at the sight of the sun. The kind of day when the breeze would dance around you, whispering warm and unruly. Etheral blue above, as promising and uninhibited as you. Youthful, free, willing. “What’s the matter—afraid of temptation?” One of those afternoons. The kind that made you want to run away. The kind that made you want to stay.

Although you knew better, you’d get caught up in the concupiscent nature of it all. “Can I have you?” His hand in yours, the whole world in his. The sun stretches over your bones and you wish someone would admire you there, bathing in gypsy gold. Your eyes like his eyes like their eyes on you. “Can’t I have you?” The kind of afternoon that splits your desires open and invites them for tea.

More here: ltrstonoone.tumblr.com/

posted Nov 19, 2011

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It's a song I wrote a couple of years ago when I really liked this guy (I was younger so I though it was love) but he was seeing someone else...


Song for My Unrequited Love

These are my words
For unrequited love
The touch of my soul,
My mind, my heart
I’m all yours
Forget all the fanfares
Forget the drums
My heart beats above them
Strong, Loud, and Clear

You’re all I seem to think of
In the morning time
You’re the only one I dream of
Have hope of in the evening time
Come to me, hold me
Think of me
And my dream will be true


I see you
You look at her
I touch you
But it’s her you hold
For it to be my lips
My waist, my heart
Tell me that you love me
Or I’ll break apart

If I could sleep
Never have to wake
Just to weep
I know it’s silly
Strange but it’s new
To feel like I need another
But the other’s taken
The another is you

I see you
You look at her
I touch you
But it’s her you hold
For it to be my lips
My waist, my heart
Tell me that you love me
Or I’ll break apart


I want you, my mind needs you
Right here, right now
And my eyes are filled with you
Right here, right now
Your unforgotten
Deed of love
Leave my eyes to cry
And my arms to bleed

posted Nov 19, 2011

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I like to write songs that I don't let anybody listen to. :)

I'm wrecked by this
Reoccurring dream I've not seen yet
Stuck on
A filmstrip that is skipping in my head
And I know
To accept that the worst is to be expected

I'm lost in
The scribbles of the lines that I have crossed
Stuck on
The sentiments I should have not forgot
And I wish
There was a way to lock away the shame

I'm alone in
This big brick building that we all call home
And we all have
Felt the ghosts of spirits as they roam
And its not true
Leave us alone, we have done nothing to you.

I guess its about guilt and denial and justification. I wrote that almost 3 years ago, I was in a dark place. Haha.

posted Jan 14, 2012

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A poem by me..

Favoured Fear – Tayi Ashley Tibble.

Confined, constricted; by your own demise.
Fear is consuming, bruising, thinking twice.
And to breathe, you have to dwindle, to dwell.
To dwell, I fear, is where you’ll find me vulnerable aswell.


And I think I live in my own; exist in a hollow,
Pained state of dread.
Fearing the next great tragedy to come.
From what’s been said.
It’s a terrible state to succumb to,
To lie, smile and accept.
But you’ll struggle on, right under wrong,
To retract your last attempts.


But see here,
With poised fear,
She manipulates your every waking eye,
And minutes slowed with torment,
Fallen, victim to the sky.
And the so named, “inconsistent moon”
Could be fitting,
It ends too soon.

But she’ll never dream of breaking this fixation.
Anticipation -
Worse, for wear when it is raining,
Dry and draining.
She will drown you.


In visions that are yet to unfold,
But can scar you more then terrors untold.
And the dread of the potential obstacles to come,
Crying desperation; it means she’s won.

Fact.

The closest thing we get to happiness,
Is relief.
Sweet, but tainted by the bitter brink of grief.
I sank to my knees.
Drowning dry in days dread,
She faulters,
Foolishly leads me to bed.

There composed, I close my eyes,
Yet I allow one final tear,
She seems to shrink in size,
Confined in fear,

My favoured fear.

All Rights Reserved. and what not..

posted Jan 14, 2012

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Thats amazing so strong! and your from Wellington too! I think..

posted Jan 14, 2012

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I write things but in my mother language. I'll try to translate it here.

I do not know if my eyes are kind of blurry, but the world seems so dingy ... The green of the grass looks so pale. The ground looks so dirty. The light looks so weak ... and trees, so poorly dressed. Sometimes I wish to watercolor the world. Color it in the most beautiful colors. The flowers would be technicolored. The rainbow would be phosphorescent. The smiles would be brighter. The tears would be beautiful. Walking barefoot would not be a problem. People would be free to play rain or falling asleep on a pile of dry leaves.
The sky wouldn't have any reason to dress himself in mists.

posted Mar 9, 2012

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She began to write in the right day her voice failed and the spoken word's refuge faded away.
At first, she forced it. The notes came out mute and dead. Her face got pink and breathless.
That's when she stuck her thin and cold fingers in her throat, and dig it with hair nails until it rained from her mouth a dense mass of sweet red little drops.
Then she spit them on the paper.

posted Mar 9, 2012

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I wrote this for my boyfriend a long time ago...

The familiarity of your shirt against my skin when I sleep seems like a security blanket made personally for me. In the dark, I’m comforted by thoughts of your fingers laced through mine, and I can’t help but to smile drowsily at mental images of your eyes. They’re a medium brown shade, a perfect shade that captures me, a willing victim of your soft, gentle gaze. And then I think about your scent. Just the faintest smell of you sends shivers down my spine that juxtapose the warm calmness that also permeates my body. I can only describe it as a feeling of falling, but with the knowledge that you will land safely, in the arms of a lover. Lastly, I think about your touch. I’m reminded of the sensation, one that I could in no way forget, and that, my dear, is how I know we are two pieces of the same puzzle. Because I would be lost, subjugated by madness, if you were to disappear from my world and never return. So, as a favor to me, carry my heart wherever you may go, and I will follow.

posted Mar 10, 2012

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Seduce me, wrap your hands around my abomination
Call me at my eyes and kiss me on my ears
My lips are yours to flip, they are not a ridiculous system
Take your time, take my time

Hinder nothing in your peculiar shroud
Linger everything on your testament
Draw your most supernatural
Stab it through the vein to the heart

I'm not in love, you are not
What to worry about?
Father preached us well
Take your time, take my time

Get lost in a heavenly destruction
Paradise will wait and hell won't sign off
We are two completely strangers
Dazzling on a swan mattress

And of black feathers


"Midnight Seduction"

more writings and peoms on:
simplyjochris.blogspot.com/search/label/writings

posted Mar 10, 2012

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"The Girl In A Mirror"

Who's that girl in the mirror - I don't recognize,
I know I have seen her few times.
Sometimes she offers a hand as if saying 'Hello',
that's when I turn away,
just to see the reflections of yesterday.

You and me,
could this be real,
or is it just a fantasy?
A reflection of my mind?
The girl in a mirror.

The girl in a mirror with a beautiful smile,
please tell me are you really mine?
Or is this just a game,
that we keep playing,
until the end of day.
When all this was - just another yesterday.

The girl in a mirror.
-----------------
"No Time"

I see, you don't have time.
Oh, don't worry I won't whine.
There should be a lonely conversation going through my head.
But it seems I'm thinking about you instead.
How has it come to this?

No words said just plain days.
I wish I was worth for your time,
then I see those days have passed by.
Silent looks exchanged from time to time,
But I still can't make you mine because you just don't have time.
-------------

I rarely write but these are my latest.

posted Mar 11, 2012

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A Voice Unheard

The paint is fading,
just oh-so slowly.
The walls are crumbling,
just much too quickly.

His voice, forgotten,
it goes unheard.
His laughter, rotten,
too much to bear.

In peace, he left;
in pain, he died.
In pain, she wept;
in peace, she fled.

-------------------------------
-------------------------------
This is something I wrote after a very dear friend of mine lost the battle against cancer two years ago next week.

posted Mar 16, 2012

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please don’t stand so close
you make it hard
for me to breathe
with each shaky breath
I choke back the words
my heart longs to confess
I want to whisper it slowly
soft in your ear
I want to declare it loud
for everyone to hear
but you’re not ready to see
all that we can be
so I’ll wait
and say “I love you” silently
someday, when it’s right
you’ll be the one
desperate to hold me tight
don’t fear my darling
I’ll still be waiting
because I know even now
your heart is changing
and when it’s fully grown
you’ll be able to see
I’ve always loved you
silently

posted Mar 22, 2012

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"a place"

I am in love with the idea of a place that doesn't exist,
not even in my dreams...
but it is in my head, never-the-less.
Every Neverland and Narnia collides
here
and explodes forth in a symphony of colour.
Time is nonexistent
and every beat of your Heart becomes a work of art.
Life is painted in every fabric of this intangible place
and, just like the world we drone along in,
it is imperfect.
but, unlike in the paper-and-pencil place,
the imperfections are seen in the glorious light they deserve.
The beauty of the unrefined.
I find myself there, sometimes,
barefoot and crosslegged
just breathing.
smiling as if I knew everything.
There is something in the magick of being
unburdened
I am met with incomprehensible peace,
then in a single second,
I watch the seasons change and when they come round again,
to the first bloom of spring,
to the fleeting flowers of love,
I rise and walk away.

posted Apr 8, 2012

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very beautiful.

posted Apr 8, 2012

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for some reason, the first line of this just seems so very powerful. It really struck me and pulled me in to finish reading.

posted Apr 8, 2012

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"The Ones on the Rock"
They say there is no hope for me,
The godless girl,
That I’ll be lost for all my life.

Are we from stardust and heat – from
The almighty sound?
Or bones of bones, and flesh of flesh?

They tell me to reopen the
Garden’s gates, and
Sit beneath the unknowing shade,

And believe: could time have breathed life
Into such minds?
Of course not. Of course not. Of course…

But, I’ve already walked through the
Groves of faith:
I’ve seen him in both blood and body,

And whispered the written word beneath
The silent nights
Until they screamed, “Apostasy!”

I’ve flipped through the papers that are
Thin as faith,
And found nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I will never look up again.
Though I may cry
For signs from the sun,

For dearly departed:

Never again.

--------

see Luke 8:13 for the reference .. just a little something i did for my writing class

posted Apr 8, 2012

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This was a poem I wrote after being inspired by a letter in one of the local newspapers. A girl from a certain religion talks about how she is forbidden to expose her body but she goes against that anyway and visits a family friend's house wearing a mini skirt. An elder member in the house calls her aside and tells her about how a diamonds beauty is hidden in the weaves of a mine before it is purified, thus telling her that the most beautiful things are kept covered so their beauty remains unspoiled. So my poem is a personification of a diamond and its mine, and how the diamond questions about being buried in the mine's filthy walls despite its radiant beauty.
Hope you guys like it...let me know what you think :)
*********
Said once the diamond to the mine
"I've the most beautiful glow and shine
A treat for the Gods and a mortals pride
As well as the benefactor of radiance on the face of a bride
Yet under this rife mud and filth I hide,elusive
Eroding impurities veiling my envious glimmer
Unseen,unkempt till a drill pierces into my disguised shimmer"
To this answered the mine in a rather didactic drawl
"Dearest offspring,your naïveté I well comprehend
Many generations of you have monotonously asked me with same intend
That why your lusture must be hidden in my filthy shrine
When you ought to be exposed to the world with beauty so fine
But remember,as you continue to whine and bewail
Only the most beautiful things are kept to remain unspoiled under a veil."

posted Apr 8, 2012

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