Moss-laden bricks of grey-orange, fitting as guards on the threshold. Behind the fool’s-ancient wrought-iron gates. Where rows upon rows of crumbling mounds stood in various interpretations of upright, their pores bathing in light from an ill moon, ailing. Porous trees hunched over most of the void spared by the sickening light’s expanse, plunging the rest in healthy shadow. The place echoed.
To enter, I must skirt around a pile of wet leaves. Today there is no weather; there is no wind, just howling. The temperature is of a mild apparition and so I hear the winds company more so. The leaf barbs that bar nefarious entrance are of little consequence to my apt overage and the grey-orange guards do little but deposit their dust upon me and my cloth.
It can be hard sometimes. Now and then we will choose the wrong way, a bit like moving against the grain.
We can ruin the wood we call life.
This can be hard to take back, since the damage has already been done.
It will scar you for a while, the mistakes we make but eventually it will fade into the past.
A simple decision can ruin our lives, but only you can choose whether to hold on to the past pain or let it go.
Every grudge should have a "half-life," the mistakes we make shouldn't be radioactive forever.
The words I compose come from my heart. My stories define who I am and my poems tell of how I feel. My pencil is my paint brush and this blank page is my canvas; when I start painting it is a masterpiece because it holds my ambitions, my passions and my dreams.
The cobwebs in those trees were the jewels of the spider's world, an art constructed yet welcoming the gales that swept them away and created canvas anew.
I know it’s an addiction. Everyone tells me. But it’s to painful to let go of. It’s always there for me when nothing else is. It makes my brain feel happy again. And I feel so bad to just let go because it’s like my best friend. What’s my addiction you ask? Well it’s...
Never let them cast you as the angel in this life, for they hang angels for every flaw. Let them cast you as a reforming demon and they will praise you for every success. Trust me. It's a better way to go.
Cinder-ella isn't a name; it's lifelong stigma for being born poor and disadvantaged. Rather, treat me as the queen who rose upon flamed wing, and I will make you my king. I'm Bella. Beauty inside and out. I'm empathy and compassion, kindness and humble gratitude... and worthy of a warm-hearted man.
Upon the chopping board are flecks of coriander leaf, bright green on a calming brown. They are scattered much the same of autumnal leaves yet speak of springtime in their gaiety.
There were no windows. Only--one, two--five seats; four lined up on the long side of the rectangular prism and one sitting opposite. The first noticeable thing was the utter lack of motion. It did not feel like any sort of future tech, it felt like the back of a truck. It was barren, smooth, it appeared as dirt brown walls in the lack of light, with sharp corners at the vertexes; but where was the motion? Those only objects within the box where the chairs, the only occupants were those sitting within them, and me; within the lonely chair.
The others were asleep. Three I knew: John, Dean, and Sam. The fourth I didn't, sitting to the far right. She was some young excitable girl, just kinda tagged along; I never knew her name. I sat there, harness pulled taught, in the groggy state that occurs after being woken from a deep sleep. I didn't have time to register any sort of fear or darker thoughts. I was still mystified at the lack of motion and the then growing presence of complete silence.
The paralyzing hurt spread through my body like icy, liquid metal. I clenched my fists as I hesitantly took each step. I noticed my feet tremble. My legs twitched, fighting the impulse to whirl around and sprint down that damp, shadowed corridor; my throat closed in threat of screaming at the underpaid, overworked staff who called Dad's case hopeless, and my jaw became tight. Fire in the form of water stung my nut brown eyes, threatening their attack. I crunched my teeth over my lip harder than I ever had. Salty blood filled my mouth. Slowly, my brain picked up my feet in an unbalanced gait, carelessly dropping the lead weights to the ground with each harrowing step. Reality tried to tap its way into my marching brain's rhythm. Dad was dying. I was helpless. That was all.
In this pandemic, dear media, "Think before you ink," because fear lowers immune responses and thus raises medical complications at the population level.