It all but spreads, a gentle lie.
From mind to mind, and eye to eye.
A hidden frown, beneath a smile.
A few feet more, maybe a mile.
A soft word here, kindness throughout.
Suppressed anger, a voiceless shout.
Shaking his hand, a deal now made.
His love now lost, the price he paid.

I envy other writers, with their uncanny ability to weave together their thoughts into beautiful stories. I have only the fleeting snippets of memories lost to time, the forgotten tales of characters who never got to be. I wonder if these authors are plagued by their fabrications, not given respite until their very creations’ voices are heard. Do they dream of others lives as if it were their own and become disoriented when their memories become poisoned by these dreams? I feel more than envy, I feel bitter, for their lives lay untainted by their own literary sons and daughters.

Misshapen hands, with scars in unusual places, glide and strike with short flurried bursts across the keyboard. The soft ticking of keys and the clock are the only sounds that permeate the silence. He leans back in his chair to observe and critique his work before moving on, only to return hunched over to correct minor mistakes. This pattern, this silence, has become normal to him. Foreign is the concept of others while he gives his thoughts their first breath of air. The world to him a simple hum tugging at the back of his mind, slowly bringing him down from his throne of creation.

Today I met a feeling, that had left me all but wordless.
Despite my wit and clever words, I’d found my mind quite worthless.
It strode itself up to the walls, surrounding my lonely heart,
and all it took was a gentle push, to tear them all apart.
Walking through the wreckage of the walls that had kept me away,
it passed right through me, as if a ghost, and then was on its way.
In the moment that it filled me, the holes in my heart had healed,
but still upon its fleeting passage, its cures had been repealed.

She looked so small when she slept.

The bed wasn't big by any means, I could've easily stretched myself across the entirety of it and she would still find a perfect spot to curl up next to me.

Her hair was funny.

I would wake to see traces of brownish blonde hair before anything else. It would tickle my nose as I breathed deeply, taking in her scent and letting it remind me that I'm awake.

So beautiful.

A feeling would go through me as I see her there, snuggled up against me. A warm heat that quickly spreads and turns into a dull ache. Sometimes it would pass. Sometimes I would forget it by pulling her close and breathing. She smelled like shade on a hot summer day.

Sometimes I couldn't handle the feeling, like having her was too much.

I worried about her. I worried about what she would give up, being with me, as well as whether or not she was happy. I worried so much.

When I held her, she felt so small, as if she would be lost by morning if I didn't keep hold through the night. So small, that one day I might lose her, and in a way lose myself.

I wondered if there is any reason for her to wake.

As long as I could, I would be that reason.

Forever.

How bad can I be? I’m part of you!
I do the things that you wouldn’t do.
I talk to that girl, I flirt with that guy.
Why, without me you might as well die!
I am the fun that you throw away,
the memories you burn at the end of the day.
I am the things that you wouldn’t brave,
the people you ****** and still couldn’t save.
Why am I here, well that’s simple too.
I’m all the fun parts of boring old you.

Imagine a world you create all your own, right down to the sinew, blood, and the bone.

Now how would you rule this whole world anew, populated by no one apart from you?

Would you make others to not feel amiss, feel the warmth of a hug or the gift of a kiss?

Or remain all alone, to avoid all the hurt. To grow bitter and cold finding hate to exert?

Now me, I don't know, but I know I'd prefer to live life beside others just as they were.

In a city of greed not a single soul giving,
a man with sad eyes tired of living.
A heart made of stone yet still painted red,
a walking shell for inside he is dead.
His mouth will lie while his hands may steal,
they both serve to hide the wound that won't heal.
A blow to the heart crippling at best,
now a void in the center of his chest.

Poison in bottles,
disguised as sweets,
the heart it throttles,
and halts its beats.

The world may find you left behind,
is not all that it seemed.
These fancies found may be bound,
by all that could be dreamed.
For the more you hide the dark inside,
the more you start to rot.
Your mind takes hold and heart runs cold,
for all you've loved, forgot.

I long for the sleep I am so heinously denied, the subtle and sinking embrace of true rest. The never-ending expanse of ebony satin, staining the existence on the back of my eyelids. I long not for a brief escape, but an eternal one. I chase the fleeting feeling of nonexistence that plagues my conscious mind, deriving from my small excursions into the nocturnal haven called sleep. I am weighed down, neigh drowned by my need to relentlessly pursue this venture. Yet, I feel it is an empty venture all the same.

Sleep suffers, while writing excels.
Awake but dreaming, nightmarish hells.
I close my eyes to rest a bit,
to find that sleep has robbed my wit.
So ever awake I'll remain,
till dreadful sleep reclaims my brain.

I wish, just for moment, that I could show you how you look to me. How even your simplest of creations are a constant inspiration. Not because they give me ideas or contribute in a synergistic manner with my own works. It’s because your pieces of literary and artistic genius give me hope that one day my own pieces will no longer be this muddled, contorted maelstrom of chaos and damnable poetry. They give me happiness when I sorely lack even a shred of joy. They enable me to bravely face the demons of my work, in hopes of quelling their ceaseless screams, or destroying them all together. In the end, your positivity helps me face the monsters that I have created to remind myself that this world will continue to beat me down, and that with the unknowing support of all of you, I can continue to fight.

I am the author of stories unwritten.

Of memories forgotten, and love birds smitten.

A lonely puppet on ethereal string,

but beware the lessons my stories bring.



For each story that you devour,

I'll take not seconds, minutes, or hours.

For each lesson learned, two more are lost.

Prime entertainment, this is the cost.



So be wary of words, as sweet as the sky.

For the faster you read, the quicker you die.

The house is a mess,
as ***** as could be!
There's dust everywhere,
I cant find the tv!
We've looked all around,
but we cant seem to find
my poor little brother
I'm going out of my mind!

It’s in the moments of clarity among the noise ridden airwaves that you hear it. Sometimes it is nothing more than a subtle beat that seems familiar, yet strangely new. The music you hear as you fall asleep, never remembering what you heard only that you have felt its seemingly warm embrace as you drift into nothingness. This music, this symphony of sound, is the voice of existence. It is the cry of an ever-dying universe, set on a track of endless life and death. It is the chorus of countless stars as they burn their places into the universe and slowly fade over time. The song of everything as it is, and never will be again, ever changing.

In an unsynchronous, unscripted, parallel of this world lie the unsuspecting pieces of my game. They are as diverse as they are unique, and equally as unwary. Their roles, even unknown to me, will be played out and unraveled along with the secrets of the universe they occupy. They are unwilling, innocent, and utterly perfect.

It was as if the world itself fell away and all that existed was the piano. He reluctantly made his way over to the gigantic instrument, and simply stared. His hands, seeming to have a mind of their own, absentmindedly struck few comfortable keys. The hollow notes hung, as is frozen in midair, before bouncing about the room and finally fading into silence. A hushed quiet falls on his unnoticed audience as he stands above the playground of his hands. His fingers hover above the ivory keys, fearing the outcome he knew would accompany his continuance. With a frown he pushed on, filling the room with strings of beautiful music, playing out his very soul. It was more than music, it was life, it was the feeling of soft grass warmed by the rays of the afternoon sun, it was the first sip of cold lemonade on a blistering day, but to him it was her. Suddenly, the music became soft and somber, as the tempo grew erratic and uncontrolled. He felt anger course through him as his hand grew tighter and began to lock in unusual places. His listeners now shuffle nervously while others look on, concerned for their unknowing player. His anger gives way to despair as his right hand suddenly cracks and grows limp, leaving his left to finish with only a lonely chord. As the last notes ring out, he cradles his hand and turns to leave only to hear clapping.

I can't hold it back, they're too loud to bear...
"If it's all in your head, then why even care?"
They scream every word, every day, every night...
"If that's really true, why do you seem alright?"
It's all just a show, to escape from the pain...
"But what purpose would it serve, what would you gain?"
It muffles the sounds that terrorize my dreams,
And hope that one day I can quiet the screams...

I wish to extract this heart from my chest,
to remove the love but all keep the rest.
For I need this pain much more than my heart,
it reminds me that love rips you apart.
How it keeps you alive despite your cries,
awake and breathing, as part of you dies.

Ticking away the time in an effort most surreal,
he holds his heart within his hands waiting for it to feel.
There he sits awaiting as time runs all but out,
his heart now broken not from pain but lack of love throughout.

Untitled entry, devoid as the space that fills my screen, killing words in their place.

Untitled entry, like clay to the mind, a blank white canvas with no art confined.

Untitled entry, once empty now filled with all of the words that it had once killed.

Untitled entry, filled up to the top, the words keep coming, but the screams won't stop.

Untitled entry, hard as I pray, the screaming continues, and wont go away.

Untitled entry, this world's not the same, for under the screams, they whisper my name.

Untitled entry, I can't let it go, of knowledge they speak, I just have to know.

Untitled entry, I know that they lie, to gain their knowledge, they say I must die.

Untitled entry, but do I dare tread, upon hallowed ground, reserved for the dead?

Untitled entry, curiosity won, their knowledge now mine, through my life undone.

Untitled entry, the words make no sound, the space in between is where we are found.

Untitled entry, no knowledge just dreams, tune out their whispers, ignore their screams.

Untitled entry, just please save yourself, beware my mistakes, no knowledge is wealth.

I wish I could get rid of these nightmares. Brand new hells await each night that I tread upon the hallowed ground of the dreaming. Flashes of lives so alien to me that I have little choice but to lay back and accept the inevitable. Every step in that realm is a new life, with new fears and new memories, like I've slipped into the forgotten moments of a life besides mine. Worse than the nightmares, or even the agonies of others, are the first moments upon waking. The moments I reach for someone who isn't there, the fresh feeling of loss starting every day. I wish I could get rid of these nightmares.