Kitschy"Love is a monochrome rainbow." She said it to herself, her voice testing the words, their coldness and their bittersweet flavour. Jagged words that teased the lips with their hard edges and irresistible coolness. These were words you could not merely shove onto lined paper and rig into emotion. These words you could neither scream nor cry, love nor hate. They were empty words, meaningless, thrilling her with their closeness, their clean-printed letters seeming to dangle over the brink of empty, agonizing, "I-don't-damn-care". Just like her. But she had long ago fallen.Kitschy
"Love is a monochrome rainbow." Her finger
TragedyBy this time she wanted to cry.Tragedy
It scraped at her, grated at her, rough and dead in its merciless brutality, its claws leaving scores and scars on her once-pure skin now battered and bruised with its well freaking meaning. Death didn't deserve this care. It was a funeral, that was all, six dead laid out neatly in their coffins, bodies twisted by the accident that had brought them there, and a sermon of screeching extremes. Grief, joy, grief, joy, it got old, even when you didn't know crap about the language the chants were wailed in.
So that was it. It was a funeral, a nice one too, and so many came to mourn fo
MaverickShe sits indifferently in her office chair, back slumped; casual. Eyes glancing carelessly over the mess of a desk nowhere near presentable- books, magazines, chips and lip balm scattered over pale wood. A smattering of stains, lines, worn-in wear and tear. Fingers tapping on keys; type- chat- know.Maverick
It wasn't that she was getting tired of it. How could she? The pretty, intricate world she wandered was almost a life form in itself. But the cold air got to her nerves, the feeling of loneliness despite how much her friends revered her. She was going to type today. A reality, a story, at her neat little word processing program,
FellShe heard it around 1 o' clock, late at night. She should've been asleep. She should've felt peaceful. She should've been comfortable in her clean, soft, worn bed. But no- Maxine was a night owl, finding stability and life in darkness, not light, and in the morning, day after day, there was a heartsick ache to her movements, a weariness as the forced herself (stumbling, blind) through a realm of cold, clean, almost antiseptic brightness. Partly because of the guilt. Partly because of her nature.Fell
And it didn't matter that the noise had been only a soothing whisper, motherly in nature. It frightened her that humanity could be so hu
Bad PoetryDear --,Bad Poetry
I began your letter at the stop sign on Third Street and lost it in a traffic jam on Hemming Way; you would've rolled your eyes at the name, so I tried to imagine you sitting beside me. That's what did it, of course--I had a perfectly good sentence and it went right out the window
with sentiment.
See there--I was trying to redeem myself by writing a poem, but apologetic prose doesn't like to share. I had grand illusions--something about a word o
Annoying
Anger
--
carpe diem!!
soyez fous et vivez au présent!!
M.A.D. My Anger Degeneration
Something Wikked this way comes...
--
How come the best art comes from the most unbearable pain?
--
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬,.oO°'*+*'°Oo.,▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
la ligne droite conduit à la perte de l'humanité...
--
Bender: .... you know what I mean? Wink wink.
Zoidberg: Bender, you just said wink wink.
Bender: No I didn't, raise middle finger.
My happy place is somewhere you're not.
--
- \"Why cant women put mascara on with their mouths closed?\"
--
Alley
I am a rock, I am an island.
Visit my gallery and be brutally honest, I want to improve!
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