Aug 2013
I can feel something boiling inside. Its pressure continues to rise as my mind slowly decides whether it will capture this moment and write, or let it slip into darkness and slide into the Forest of Tries.
It wants to explode; but it quickly simmers down and a saddened frown collapses itself upon my chin, and without a sound this Sickly Whim has now picked up the crown and claimed itself through sin King of the town of Him.
It suppresses any thought of motivation. Any child of a thought that has brought on its cloth even the slightest inspiration will be locked in a vault where their voices will halt to a whisper and then speculation.
The thoughts that remain in this desolate place all live in the shadows in shame of the day. For Fear and Pain have been recruited the same by this Sickly Whim that now rules my domain.
Fear is the soul that was spawned from a hole so dark and so old that the moment Fear left the hole started to grow. The slower Fear crept up the steps of their homes; the quicker my thoughts shriveled down to their bones. Fear left them with breath only to do it again. For that’s how he fed. They’re no good to him dead. My thoughts started to flee when they knew they were next, and thoughts started to die and Fear started to stress. Fear started to change every way that he dressed, so the thoughts wouldn't fear which was Fear in a vest. He gave them all boxes to shove in their heads, so that Fear could politely take them all by the neck.
Pain couldn't care if they lived or they died, as long as my thoughts couldn't bear when they cried. If they pulled out their hair, or they tore out the tears in their eyes he would relic the moment with a crude vicious pride. My thoughts would scream from their knees to the sky. Screams that seemed to **** out their lives from deep in their belly and out through their eyes. My thoughts wouldn't breath and their screams would subside, but their mouths still wide open and their pain still alive. Pain stood aside with a vise by his side, a glass full of wine, and an army behind. He’d sit back and sigh with a grin in his eye, as my thoughts would wither away like ash in the sky.
My mind has been burned and turned into a desperate place. Few thoughts roam through the vast endless space. The Sickly Whim now showers in self grace; showers in darkness he cares not for his face.
Pain and Fear both do as they please. They’re watching my thoughts burn like leaves in the breeze.
Love has been lost. Hope slowly dies, but something still lurks in the Forest of Tries.
-J.Cruz Hernandez
It wants to explode; but it quickly simmers down and a saddened frown collapses itself upon my chin, and without a sound this Sickly Whim has now picked up the crown and claimed itself through sin King of the town of Him.
It suppresses any thought of motivation. Any child of a thought that has brought on its cloth even the slightest inspiration will be locked in a vault where their voices will halt to a whisper and then speculation.
The thoughts that remain in this desolate place all live in the shadows in shame of the day. For Fear and Pain have been recruited the same by this Sickly Whim that now rules my domain.
Fear is the soul that was spawned from a hole so dark and so old that the moment Fear left the hole started to grow. The slower Fear crept up the steps of their homes; the quicker my thoughts shriveled down to their bones. Fear left them with breath only to do it again. For that’s how he fed. They’re no good to him dead. My thoughts started to flee when they knew they were next, and thoughts started to die and Fear started to stress. Fear started to change every way that he dressed, so the thoughts wouldn't fear which was Fear in a vest. He gave them all boxes to shove in their heads, so that Fear could politely take them all by the neck.
Pain couldn't care if they lived or they died, as long as my thoughts couldn't bear when they cried. If they pulled out their hair, or they tore out the tears in their eyes he would relic the moment with a crude vicious pride. My thoughts would scream from their knees to the sky. Screams that seemed to **** out their lives from deep in their belly and out through their eyes. My thoughts wouldn't breath and their screams would subside, but their mouths still wide open and their pain still alive. Pain stood aside with a vise by his side, a glass full of wine, and an army behind. He’d sit back and sigh with a grin in his eye, as my thoughts would wither away like ash in the sky.
My mind has been burned and turned into a desperate place. Few thoughts roam through the vast endless space. The Sickly Whim now showers in self grace; showers in darkness he cares not for his face.
Pain and Fear both do as they please. They’re watching my thoughts burn like leaves in the breeze.
Love has been lost. Hope slowly dies, but something still lurks in the Forest of Tries.
-J.Cruz Hernandez
