lexi-6Whisper

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54*I wrote this about a year and a half ago, so mind you, I was but a mere 14 and a half years of age. I've detected problems in the plot and grammatical errors, but I don't want to take away from what it was when I first created it. Thank you.* / There are times that I decide that I must stop, so I pause in my placid, scheduled routine, and wonder about life, and how I came to be such a disheveled human being. I stare at the repetitive pattern of white squares on the ceiling, count the squares a couple of times (it's always 54), and just think. My thoughts bounce around my head persistently, I can feel them hitting against my head, back and forth, back and forth, never stopping. They slither like evil, determined serpents, throughout my veins, around my face, between my fingers. My thoughts fuse together with my dreams, intermingling with my memories, desires, the lies I was fed every day as a child, and the constant anger so close to the surface, but for what reason it is truly there, I was never able to figure out. / Each time I feel the need to think, I start with the same beginning, that same beginning which my mother repeated to me so many times, every morning, every hour on the hour, every night. “You are Todd Stevens. You have beautiful green eyes, the color of emeralds. You are as quick as a fox, and as sharp as a needle. Your mama loves you very much. You've got a great future ahead of you. You killed your sister, Holly, but mama still loves you.” After that, which was so deeply penetrated into my skull, it would be impossible for me to forget it, my thoughts would wander and dwindle down the stream of consciousness.

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LavaThe jagged rocks flow through the air like daggers laced with the most toxic of poisons. Adverted eyes avoid the abyss of spewing lava for fear of being burned. Those in the path of destruction, they are the unluckiest of victims. Monosyllabic stones of hopelessness find their way to the scarred skin, bloodying the bloodied, breaking the broken. The volcanoes are worthy of repugnant titles, sharp like their tongues or decaying like their souls. The victims should run, should cry, should lash out against the lava, protect themselves. But everyone says that if you choose to live at the bottom of a volcanic body, you are already dead. The lava will only harden you, despite attempts to remain cool in your passivity. Lava burns, and no amount of composure or preparation can protect you from the overwhelming presence of hatred and intolerance; the hating fire fueled only by oxygen.

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SeattleYour hands have seen the inside / of a carborator. You took apart a / hard drive and called it procreation.

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Obsoleteam i / blackness, shrouding, crowding / darkness, coldness

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StrangulationI want to watch your lips turn blue, / paint elegies in your flesh with the / purple pumping of your native mind and

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Sufferingshave you ever thought / why does the wind howl like wolves- / they have both lost their sanity

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The Graysshades of hues so dark, yet iridescent, lined the minimalistic realm during the era of the Grays. / each Gray wore gray clothes / ate gray food

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Your Burial GroundYou were simply sunshine in its purest form, and I, simply a shadow, a place where your rays did not reach, a creeping silhouette that trailed after you and grabbed after your own ambitions in bitter hopes to understand you clearer, but to no avail. I knew you, but only because you refused to know me. I thought I understood your motivation in neglecting me after all those months of laughter, but I later understood that what had kindled within me was simply a burial ground for all of your past memories you'd wished to discard somewhere no one else would ever find. I knew you'd forget about me the second you forgot about them, and I was okay with it. I was okay with holding on to your burdens and your troubles and your sorrow if it meant you'd understand happiness for once in life (and even if I was not the one who gave it to you).

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MortirYou carry me down the hill with the moon / nestled deep within your pockets. / Your warmth resounds deep into my hollow

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Spontaneous CombustionLosing touch without the warmth and life of guiding light, / slow tendrils beckoning your every whisper and sigh of bliss, / coupled hope, unsolitary solitude.

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