Bird (II)Once I swore to myself that I’d learn how to flyTo be independent like the television once saidBut then I realized that I prefer to be chained to someone’s handAs the cuff surrounding my heart could get tighter & tighterUntil it would bleed out;Staining the metal red,‘Til my captor would finally realize what extents I’d go to for him.
Ravens Can't SingI remember when you said I sing like an angel compared to your sisterThe time you said I could release a certain tone & pitch of my voiceJust for you.Though the only time I've ever heard youWas when we had to for a goddamn play parents viewed at metaphorical gunpoint.Maybe angels don't actually have hymns that they bellow whilst their silhouette counters raining gold.
CreativitySome people think of creativity as a loving figure,A divine goddess;Others think of it as a mere objectLike an apple.But the way I look at it,I see blackRoses & bloodKnives repeatedly stabbing hearts until they shatterTears falling straight off of the faces of abuse victims..And then there's the fruit sitting in the middle of the room-Upon its sacred throneAs demons with horns as jagged as mountains & skin as red as the ink pen on my floor crawl their way out of itProving that beauty is carved out of the worst of usThe way that poets' fingers tremble as they hover above a plastic keyboard;Painters stroking dried scarlet across their canvas;Regular teens drawing out macabre images of their life at home with pens provided by schools.And of course, those 'some people' still believe in a field of tulips & daisiesComfort as butterflies circle 'round & 'round their heads..Then again,It's my opinion in this cruel world.
Pills and IronShe doesn't take the pills to ease a wretched painAs the iron edge rakes against her wrist.Over & over again, she carves into her fleshScarlet streaming down her arm;But it's the only way she can express her sorrow.Now the porcelain sink is dyed red,The counter stained as wellAs she lifts her phone to capture the mortifying image of her workAnd hit 'send'.
Pen StrokesI'm addicted to the way pen strokes can mesmerize othersHow it can craft images of sorrow or passionIn a senseThat reminds me of lyrics haunting a summer glaze.Black can represent all of the darkness I've gathered;Every bit & piece;Almost like death infused into rose petals.
phonesremember that phone call in augustthat brought us togetherand revealed so much more than it should've?
TGB - LostShe'd been gone from the Tribes for near a season cycle now and the weight of years that hadn't yet passed pressed heavy on her shoulders.Her nights were spent remembering and wishing and wanting for things she was incapable of giving, of having. Commitment. The idea was foreign to her and as much as she longed for it, longed to call Idek hers and for Raven to call her mine, Arya knew that she would never be able to settle - to stay and stagnate. Even as a kit she'd been restless and roaming well before her other siblings had begun to walk. There was something about her that seemed desperate to move, to see.But, still, she longed.Her pawsteps were quiet and though her mind was distracted she would know his tell-tale scent anywhere - thick and heady, it was a scent Arya had grown to associate with safe. She stilled in her wandering as Idek came into view and frowned as she noted the slump in his shoulders, the near desolate way he carried himself. He lacked
Laurel GreenWreath. Arena.Stumbling hero ...Thumbs down!
Midnight Cravings"I need to do my homework"but chocolate..."I know but,"but chocolate..."Oh come on, it's past midnight!"More like past time to eat chocolate."..."You should probably fix that..."I have five sentences left."Five sentences about chocolate?"No..."Then they can be done after we get back from getting chocolate."I'd have to drive all the way to the gas station..." and?"That's a ten minute drive."and?"It's past midnight!"It's chocolate!"I need to finish this essay." But! You also need chocolate!"..."Like NOW!"Right now?"Yessssss,...."Chocolate..."Chocolate.
11.You can't hurt me with words.