An imaginary world where anything exist.
One’s imagination it all you need.
To write is to create - an endless possibilities.
Word by word, phrase by phrase, a reality within one’s mind.
A swing of a pen and it shall become.
Line between line, a story is made.
A reality to the characters within.
A world where her story begins.
With the stroke of my pen, I created a world.
A world where my character would live.
A peaceful town, bountiful of blessings.
And thus, she was born - safe and healthy.
Continuously writing with my pen in hand.
I skipped the details until she’s nine.
Grown to be a pretty little girl everyone adores.
But now it has come - it is time to get the story done.
The enticing blank paper allures my imagination.
An empty space where everything is possible.
A swing of my pen is all I need.
And it shall be done, created, thus shall happen.
My hands moved without even thinking.
Slowly and slowly, the conflict will be done.
For out little girl, trapped inside an unknown ground.
Finding her way out, crying while calling for someone.
Seeing this in my own imagination.
I can’t help by to make her suffer more.
It is my story and she’s my character.
Whatever I wrote shall be her fate.
I moved my pen once more.
And make it rain for her to feel cold.
Enlarged the forest, and make her hopeless.
Seeing her dull eyes makes me what to hurt her more than twice.
Hearing her scream with her lifeless voice.
It is nothing but a music into my ears.
I made her more and more hopeless - a chill on my spine.
Slowly taking her life had never this so fun.
As she took her last breath, I feel empty.
I never thought my story meets and ending.
To see my own creation lived until I end it.
I couldn’t help but to think that I would like to switch places.
And now I’m back being an ordinary girl.
To which I am nothing but an average human.
Living in a world where it is bound by rules.
Where I wonder, is there a writer behind it all?
Whoever it may, I have my pen.
That’s all I need to create my ideal end.
A pen that can make anything possible.
A world where I am the character of my own.

I used to be pretty, but now I look sick.
I used to be though, but now I feel weak.
I can't help myself, so I became helpless.
I am never leaving this bed which i'm drowning in, but I hope that someday I learn how to swim with the fish.

Blood is rushing to the visible veins in my wrists and down my legs 'till it becomes hot at my feet and i'm standing in a red pool. And I wish I could swim with the blood cells.

Endure more like suffer. And I might survive but i'm no survivor.

I used to look sick, but now I look dead.

Dragged under the water by darkness, wondering when it will all be over. This suffocating darkness that calls my name.
I’ve been hurt. I’ve been torn to pieces. Smashed onto the ***** floor in which I’ve been told I belong. The struggle of staying above the water drags me deeper. I’m tired and wet and empty inside. It just seems so easy to let go. The thought of trying to swim to freedom is so nothingness. The weights chained to my ankles only get heavier each day with the weights of the world. Soon I will fail. I will give up. Unable to live in a world where you safe, where your pain is taken away, where there is people you can tell everything to, where life seems freeing. I remember the day she held scissors to my head. The blade millimeters away from my face. The she took us to the car and drove away. She took us to the park. 10:00 pm. She asked us what we were thinking. About if they would get a divorce. She said she would be mad. I said nothing. No words could describe how I felt. “I don’t feel anything.” She was mad. She lied. He lied they lied. We lied. I now no longer feel anything. I’m in pain. I’m in empty pain. My tears mean nothing and yet everything. My words start wars and end lives. I. Me. Who is Me? No one. Nothing. A nothing slowly running out of air.