Your eyes glow in the dark. Green. My mind sees them, only the eyes can close and even those lids are vulnerable somewhere. The simple truth of the matter is that I'm not content... the vulnerability will be found until mine closes up like your resistance to friendship.
Once upon a time in Pearl, the ghost of the artist sounded his soul. This led to war and loss, all in favor of his love. He's burnt, bloody, beaten. She's finally forgotten... the fight. that shook the gates. The world became his walls and by this I mean his home, and by this I mean pain. The scare. The heart racing. The radio seizes to be and the door shuts. Footsteps could be heard and death was a seizure away.
The mirrors give back what you give them, however, nothing is pure or 100 percent efficient. What does it keep? It keeps everything. It's a still-framed portrait of your world...top left to bottom right. All in all, the thunder bashes my head, tears at my ears. The blood is insane and a sign of draining hope and life.
Tear out my glory. Tear out my dreams. Fuck my will and my perserverence. This shit is just another game. One of, well, a lot. I find beauty in breathing through my eyes because your skin isn't here. What you say doesn't portray beauty, but madness and failure to realize. Sooner, not later, your face will fade and join your touch and power in my past. You have nothing to say because you can't hear. You're not even listening.
She stands up gracefully and walks to the door. She shuts it and turns back around as the cd plays her melody, the one that goes so deep, a tear falls to its destined end. Why? In her eyes, the walls all cave in, her ears pick out the ugly and his face dwells in her mind. His words and his ignorance. The months of torment draw her counterpunch to the world that so lowly betrayed her. The feeling inside and the unfeeling outside forced the blade to her wrists and the cold, white absence of life to her face. Her parents would bury her that following week. She would bury herself that following year. And when the time was finally right, she'd write a song to replace the color that fled her life the years before. Maybe someone would read it. Maybe someone would understand.
The symbols in which we folly draw pens to the paper.
Tangled and twisted, in search of future lives, the writer can be considered a revolutionary... what is the author? The author writes the story and the writer writes the words. Kill the angels that failed to unite, but then kill the angels that killed them. Only one of its own kind can take an existence so pure. Cast the die. Suicide is the only real possibility. I'm sorry for the time. I'm sorry for your time. Me? Sleep.
Before the blade found its last destination, it sat for months in a state of contemplation in her mind and physically, it was in a book-- alone. That melody, that went so deep, drew that tear-- the leader and first of many that fell that final hour, however, the millionth of the season, this being Spring... when life is bourne and in this case, too, a life is, in fact, bourne. That melody also made her sink, with her back against the door, to her knees, and her face was the finest example of desperate and hurt. When all was a blur and the words "move on" made no sense... when her friends spoke of their "understandings"... and when the melody in her cd player touched her heart well enough... the act was done. And as her heart pumped out the remnants of her life, the melody ended. And Down Life was bourne.
that's the best thing i've ever written... according to me at least. if you like it, comment maybe and tell me heh