Just as I was getting into my car, my breath was ripped from my lungs. On the back window ****** handprints littered the tinted glass, the viscous red slowly sliding down. An unstoppable snowball began building in the pit of my stomach. Looking around in the late, night darkness, I caught eyes with a man who stood a few yards away, in the middle of the road. His eyes were focused on where I sat behind the wheel, the door still open, allowing the chilled breeze to softly touch my skin.

“Rap. Tap. Tap, Little Bird,” his voice sounded like it had traveled via vocal chords through heavy sandpaper. He tilted his head causing messy, black hair to fall over glacier, pinpoint, eyes. A crazed smile spreading across his features. Everything about him screamed ******.

My heart began to beat faster and faster, like a bird trying to break free from a cage, adrenaline levels rising, as he slowly took a step toward my car. The black trench coat he wore flowing behind him, the crimson covered machete he held rested on his shoulder. Sweat blanketed my skin as I looked for my keys.

“You’re going to sing your song of pain for me while I rip you apart, Bird,” he taunted.

Where are they?!   I thought in panic, I paled as it hit me, I forgot to grab them on my way out, ‘RUN!’ my mind screamed.

I sprang out of the car and ran the opposite way. But, froze in shock. Leaning against the rear bumper was the mangled body of  a girl. Her eyes had been clawed out causing rivers of red to fall down her pale cheeks from the sockets. Her bottom jaw ripped off, now laying on the asphalt, allowing her ****** tongue to hang like a decoration at a party, only this party was no birthday party, but a ****** party, and I was an unwilling guest. A large **** stretched across her stomach, various organs now laid strewn around her, her intestine spilled from the wound like what you would see in a cheap zombie movie, but this was no prop and I wasn’t in a zombie movie. Her limbs bent in directions they shouldn’t bend, causing the the white jagged end of the broken bones to rise from the torn skin like mountains as thick scarlet rivers ran freely from the wounds. Blood seeped from her lifeless form, pooling around her.

A crazed laugh ripped through the air, “Don’t worry, Birdy Bird, you’ll be just like her soon!” he yelled psychotically, running at me full speed.

I sprinted down the road, my heart pounding in my ears. For what felt like days, but could have only been an hour, he chased me, twist after turn, through the dark, empty town. Fire burned in my lungs, my body sent waves of pain each pounding step I took, my mind screamed to stop and catch my breath. Using my last bit of energy, I took off into the upcoming woods that lined the city, taking shelter behind a large trunk of one of the hundreds of trees. Placing my hand over my mouth to silence my breathing, I listened for any sign of the insane man. For about twenty minutes, I listened, hearing nothing. My body relaxed, as I allowed myself to believe I had lost him.

But, as I stepped out from my hiding place, I ran into something, stumbling back with a gasp as the glint of a blade caught my eyes. Slowly looking up, my body shook with fear, my eyes widened in shock as the murderous man towered over me. He wore a smirk of victory, his eyes full of insanity. He let out a demented laugh, grabbing me before I could run.

“Surprise, Birdy!!”

Is it normal to talk to yourself?
Am I going mad?
Is it wrong to do such a thing?
Can I be called bad?

Depression has become a trend,
having it is part of a fad.
I don't follow short-lived crazes,
but I do feel kind of sad.

I'm only kidding, you know
when I say my life is rad.
Problems are common in life
And I'll never forget what I had.

Sadness, anger, lack of trust.
Depression, suicide, insanity's thrusts.
Topics of the past written down,
topics of the future only to be found.

For the outlandish person, let it be
that hope envelops them back into society.
That they find joy once more;
and they can appreciate life to it's core.

Seventeen times I have walked - or stalked?
Eighteen times I have died - or tried?
Nineteen times I have bled - or said?
Twenty times I have fallen - still crestfallen?

Question!

Such a breathtaking and beautiful melody awaited me,
As I gracefully sailed to the magnificent shores of gold,
A splendid figure visiting me on this shimmering sea,
Singing sweet songs to me as I passed through this watery threshold-

Four times I have mutated - or castrated?
Two times I have killed - feel fulfilled?
Three times I have lied - or implied?
One time I have cried - or died?

Question!

It’s nights like this
Hyped up on the high
Of post-sadness
And you

My music running laps in my brain
You keep me up, though
You make me like this
I get you tomorrow
To hug you
See you
Maybe even kiss you
But probably not

I do not want to go to sleep
Because it ends this
Feeling of euphoric silence
Because the music in my head
Is so blissful

I don’t know really
Am I sad!
Happy?
Alone.
Who knows
I do not

I should close my eyes
And let this go
And give into it all
But I am stubborn
I need this darkness
A lamp as this is too bright for me

I miss you
Now I sound insane
As if I didn’t before
Oh well
Goodnight nobody

When on those nights so cold,
who was there to comfort me but my own bed?
It may seem odd to some,
but for me my bed has always come.

I wrap myself up in it's blankets,
form a cocoon of everlasting peace.
Where pressure nor stress can haunt,
and where no man can taunt.

I talk to myself.
Some might think I'm crazy for doing so.
But what's so crazy about it?
It's pretty normal for me.

My bed has become my home.
I live within it's walls.
Sometimes I become too comfortable,
and bathe too long in it's enveloping walls.

I sometimes find myself in extreme situations,
"This must be due to my bed!" I exclaim,
"It's persuaded me too far this time."
Of course, by the next day,
or even the next hour,
I find myself in those places again.
Perhaps I am to blame.

However, once I've realize where I was,
I instantly recollect my thoughts.
Regret what I was about to do,
and hoped instantly for a new.
And, for a while,
every thing seems to make me smile.
The walls of my bed have faded away,
and I am left in a state of allay.

But that time must come to an end.
According to my bed, it will only begin again.
My bed then reminds me of everything.
Every red line on the skin.
Every rope from the tree.
Every bridge dived from.
Every falsely committed sin.
It reminds me that these exist,
and I will remember for as long as it insists.

I’ve always adored the fact that you have parts missing from your face,
creating this sort of perfect imbalance
that makes it seem as if you were a member of your
own race,
like some far-out cat from some planet
on the skids …
You once had this strange haircut
and I wanted to slap you in the back
of your head
with an open hand
as I stared into your narrow and angelic countenance.
But who didn’t,
am I right?

So I guess that’s when it all began,
But that’s no surprise, really, because
it always begins
with very weird hair —
Anyway, when I was young I used to marvel at the primates
in their unnatural habitat.
But many years later I was
saddened by the realization that you had never
bounced around like a monkey in
form-fitting garb inside my cage.
So what am I supposed to do now
after stumbling upon you atop the furniture?

I hope that you know that I
will never, ever be the same —
And all that time we spent
turning avoidance into an art form,
which is why when I saw you squirm that day in your chair
it felt like victory despite my exhaustion.
Though I have tried,
albeit, somewhat awkwardly, to make amends,
I am convinced that every word
you have ever said to me, about me, about this,
is total *******
slung with the intention of
hiding your disdain
behind sweet words and a laugh
that cuts me every time.