I want you to know me by my handwriting
Let’s start licking envelopes again just to say hello
I’ll sit at my desk drinking coffee in the morning
A stack of letters in the drawer ******* with a string
You know I would keep every one of yours
Even if you lived next door or wrote me every day
I don’t know how to throw anything away

My handwriting
                                      is like a portmanteau of my parents'

I think it fits,

but sometimes

                                            I wish it was different.

I guess that's just the way things are.
But I can change.

She stumbles crookedly, confused by the pure hatred in their eyes,
She cries, afraid of the blood slowly seeping from sliced palms and soles.
She reaches out, only to be scorned by those who are to love her,
She covers her ears, as rage-filled words, echoes incessantly, cutting deeper into the wounds.
She hides in her own little dark corner, as she feels the pain their powers bring.
     Aren't villains the only ones that
     They should hurt?
     Does that make her one then?
She falls deeper, deeper down the rabbit-hole - deeper into the toxicity that is her life,
She scars harder; becoming more wretched, surrendering to the demons that haunt her.
She's disregarded by the powerful; she's scorned by the weak.
Its  s e m p i t e r n a l.
     "You cant become the hero."
     "YOU CANT BE A HERO."
She knows this, known it for so long now.
      No; everyone says she cant be the hero -
      Why not be the villain instead?
                                                        ­      By: Jenay Long

She sat there with her rusty voice box, a  drought on her tongue and a pen aching to flood the pristine sheet with blue ink.
She poured pain into words of refuge and tucked the love etched memories into words.
She wrote to the ones she loved, who made her heart beat ever so intensely. For who rooted her strengthening her spine with courage. For the ones who betrayed, abandoned and hurt making her swallow sorrows whole on empty stomach.
She undressed her truth as she painted shades of past, resurfacing the suppressed from the dustiest parts of her mind, reigniting the dying embers. As she wrote thoughts screamed to be heard, memories weeped to be replayed as she crafted sentences, paragraphs, beginning and ends, sunrises and sunsets; the breathing of her heart allowing her to feel a sense of relief.
But she never sent them, for they were riskier to be read by them than to be tucked safely away.

I always wish
That hand-writing
A letter
Didn’t go out of style.

I miss the excitement
Of getting something in the mail.
Opening a hand addressed envelope
And reading the words sent to me.

But now
All I get in the mail
Is bills and unwanted
Or needed, advertisements.

My greatest fear is
that handwritten letters
will soon be a lost
art.
My greatest wish
is to be your
only artist.

devilish
treason,
personification
nonsensical reason -
flash forward to now
see they had an essence of the
Season.
A world so Dark.
Light is
devilish
treason
personification
without much reason.
Actions are one's own
let their repercussions flow