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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Jun 8, 2013
EndlesslyIt's something about the way my breath / gets just a little deeper when I'm near you. / It's something about the way my eyes
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Oct 5, 2013
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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Oct 6, 2013
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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Oct 6, 2013
Nightly DemonsI find it so simple that a being can lull his or her self to sleep with soothing words of self worth, positive thoughts, or hopeful outcomes for the days ahead. How uplifting it must feel to drift out of the conscious world with all the dreams of the future solidifying in your mind, to only have that mirrored reflection of who you'd like to be become shattered into dismal shards of bloodied memories. The real world, I've found, is not what we experience when we are awake. No, the real world is experienced when the suppressed demons crawl under our skin and barricade our veins while we sleep, insisting upon halting our advances in bettering ourselves, proving to us that we are not as strong as we think. / Now, what about those who do not remember dreams? What do they do that makes them so lucky not to be engulfed in the nightly terrors and reminded on what life truly is, what we're really experiencing? I would never consider them lucky. They are in fact one of two types of people who are of the utmost unfortunate, the first type being those who have not yet realized that they walk hand in hand with their nightly demons in the conscious world. The other type of unfortunate soul is the one who refuses to listen, refuses to garner the insight offered to them, and suppresses yet more memories and thoughts and feelings and emotions and love and hatred until it boils up out of their eye sockets and they have no choice but to take action, whether against their own self or the beings around them. / These people, these souls who reassure themselves of their life's meaning and personal purpose each night, who plaster a smile on their mouths and a twinkle in their eye, they are the ones you should be fearing, for, if they are deaf and blind to their own misfortunes, they are deaf and blind to the world around them. They won't dream about the chaos in their brain or the chaos in society. They won't remember the day you told them they are loved, nor the day you told them they were hated. They will continue to be present in form, but absent in awareness, just as they are absent from their dreams. They will continue on down the dead end road of believing their dreams are what is planned for the future, instead of what has happened in the past. They will never learn to be strong enough to appreciate their nightly demons. They will never be strong enough to appreciate you.
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Jun 8, 2013
No Such Thingthere's something entrancing in knowing that I am not quite young / young minded, no. / young in control, perhaps.
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Jun 11, 2013
Obsoleteam i / blackness, shrouding, crowding / darkness, coldness
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Jun 18, 2013
SeattleYour hands have seen the inside / of a carborator. You took apart a / hard drive and called it procreation.
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Oct 5, 2013
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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Oct 6, 2013
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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Oct 6, 2013
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