|Life is cold here...|
Cleanse and PurifyCleanse and Purify by TheRainGirl
The grass seemed of a sickening color, something between green and blue, difficult to distinct the actual shade as it swayed in the non-existent breeze. Countless little shinings and faint shimmers floated just above it emitting a strange pulse of energy.
Lucian was on his knees, gasping for air. The weapon of his formidable enemy was sharp enough to tear his leather boot and rip off his Achilles tendon. It was impossible for him to stand. Still, not for a single moment did he worry about his own situation. Not as long as she was still fighting a fight that they both knew was already over. Senna was standing tall, firmly holding her gun with both her hands. She was stronger than him. His hands were trembling.
"Accept it, you have already lost." an otherworldly voice echoed. Thresh was standing right across the field, not far from the two partners. Lucian could feel his dark aura, consisted only of death and sheer terror.
IntensityCoffee: two creams, one sugar, one Sweet 'n' low. Pancakes: short stack. Side of bacon. Every Tuesday and Thursday. 9am.lalaith913
The order never changed, though sometimes he would ask for extra syrup, but it was only on the mornings when he came in with unkempt hair and stubble on his high-boned, ruddy cheeks. Those were the rough mornings, the mornings when caloric intake was not on his mind. They weren't often: he was usually very meticulous. Only the occasional day would arise when you could tell the morning had not gone as it should have. My heart ached for him on these days.
He only ever came on Tuesday and Thursday: he didn't have to be in the office (he worked for a mortgage company) until 10am on those days, instead of the usual 9 o'clock. He took the extra hour to have a proper breakfast, even if there were days when he clearly could have spent more time on his morning hygiene practices rather than rushing to a diner. The vainer part of myself thought that he always showed up for me,
asylumI have lines to crossseaboundstars
and skeletons to shatter,
because halted mercy
resides in these hands.
But I will not
show mercy with you.
Today is painted
with pinstripes and broken
nails, it is when
you decide I am
good enough to be
But I made myself worse,
when I was with you.
HateI really hate the way she lies. She says she’ll listen, but she won’t. She promises she’ll be there, but she isn’t. She tells me it wasn’t her, but it was. I don’t hate her you know. I just hate everything she is, everything she does. Her smug smile. Her mud brown hair. Her green eyes with a drop of evil. The way she knows how to hurt me. The way she can make me cry. The way she likes it. She knows me too well. She knows how to hurt me. Knowledge is power and power corrupts. She’s the most corrupt person I know.PsychoBluePhoenix
But I can’t hate her; not entirely. After all, hating yourself isn’t healthy.
A Letter to MozartI have a confession to make.FieryDownpour479
I think we should break up.
Don’t get me wrong, you are a collection of stars. Every time I hear that little night music I look up in the sky and I see your magnificent constellation shining ever-so-bright down upon me. I am so thankful for our little infinity, but I just can't see this working out.
Anyone with eyes could see what a distinguished composer you are. What with your sumptuous symphonies and celebratory sonatas, you are a heartthrob; oh, what I would give to have you tickle my ivories if even just once. But you see, I think I’ve had enough of your distasteful dissonance. All that’s left between us are aggravating augmentations and catastrophic cadenzas.
I wish that I could taste our mellifluous melodic memories one last time. Last I remember we shared such a charming concerto; now all I’m left with is a wasteful waltz. What happened to those fantastic fantasias we were always dreaming of?
We used to have such grace and su
i'm not going to lie and say she was perfect.her skin was spotted with what she passed off as freckles,Whyles
but what were really scars from a thousand summer suns
as she ran about outside,
climbing trees and treading rivers,
pretending to be an american bomber
in the midst of WWII.
she kept crimson stains on pearl pink lips,
which always had the habit of getting on her teeth
because she put on make-up after dressing in her car
and ordering coffee in every way she hated it
as she drove to the record store three times a day,
ignoring her job downtown.
she owned four and a half hairbrushes exactly,
i took count on the first night i stepped into that whirl-wind room,
though her lopsided up-dos of messy blonde hair revealed just how much her fingers
never broke the dust.
she had these lovely fragile hands
that showed each and every vein and bone,
the type of hands made for tearing boys like me apart.
how could i have even expected to survive,
a paper poet
held against a reckless flame?
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.Erlebnisse
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever