#grimm
A story of two brothers
who drove a knife into a tree.
Silver meant life.
Rust meant death.
I never had a knife
but I did have a friendship bracelet.
A beautiful butterfly.
On the top, it looked pretty.
But no one saw how
its pretty silver color
was fading to a rusty copper.
As the silver shifted to rust,
I remembered the story.
My friendship was dying. I could see it.
And yet... it only turned rusty
on exactly half
of the butterfly.
Maybe I could save this.
So I tried to be a better friend.
It worked.
I can't believe it worked.
The rust faded back to silver.
There are still some traces of rust
but no friendship is perfect.
And I am okay with that.
Yet now,
beneath the silver,
I see grey.
Dark, unmoving grey.
Solid rock.
The story doesn't say what to do
about grey.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 12:44 AM UTC
A thick spine of brown
edges of gold
stories passed down
forever re-told.
The book looked at me
and I looked back
wondering who would read
something like that
Now the thick book
sits in my room
it tells me the secrets
of stories once doomed
Snow white's evil witch
was tortured to death
dancing over coals
until her last breath
Red riding hoods ferocity
was never shown
the wolf's stomach cut open
and by her filed with stones
Why don't they tell these?
I do not know
but next time a book seems to whisper
please, listen close.
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 10:57 AM UTC
She realized she was like a novel
Born in a world that didn't care to read
So she started to hate herself
Like a truth amongst lies perceived
She was like the hard truth
Based on a grimm story
Living amongst fake lies
Shallow and sweet with a happy ending
Surrounded by people
Who only read summaries
Who couldn't dive deep enough
To read her full story
So she waits for a person
With a long enough attention span
A fated reader, with depth similar to her
Who can read as much as she can
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 9:37 PM UTC
A long time ago, before the days of Henry VIII, There was a young farmer.
Dryden had inherited his land from his recently passed father.
It was a luxurious plot, the greatest and largest around.
There was however, Dryden noticed:
A large area of land his father never used.
Time passed and eventually Dryden decided he would begin to farm that land.
When he arrived at the small plot, he realized it was perfect farmland.
The soil was perfect , sunlight was plentiful but the dirt remained moist.
Dryden began to sow the seeds he had brought.
It was strenuous and demanding work.
Dryden worked for seven hours and finished right in time to leave before the sun went down.
When he turned to look at his work however, Dryden saw a campfire, burning brightly.
Dryden approached slowly, when he got to the fire, to his shock, there was a small Devil sitting in it.
It was Blood red with grey cloudy eyes, the feet of a goat and arms the size of a baby's.
At the sight of Dryden it began to do a dance. It was repulsive.
"What is your business here?"
Dryden asked in a brave demanding tone.
The creature began to cackle.
It said this:
"This land is full of potential, this land will bare much treasure. You will give me half of all that you grow on this land this year, I have no use for money, but the fruits I desire"
Intimidated, Dryden could find no way out of the deal, but then a thought came to his head.
He said:
"Fine you may have half of what is grown here. To make it even I will take what grows under the ground and you may take what is above ground"
The devil agreed and went away in a wicked manner.
Dryden however knew this season was for beets not the corn.
The devil was not all knowing, so he did not know this.
When the time came to harvest, the devil returned.
While Dryden loaded is basket with beets to sell.
The little devil was empty handed, save for a couple wild berries.
The devil was furious, and called over Dryden.
He said:
"You tricky man, how dare you. This time I will take what is below ground."
Dryden agreed.
Of course this time the corn sprouted, and when the devil returned he saw this.
Dryden approached and said:
"There you go Little Devil, You've gotten what you wanted, regardless of what you desired. Go now, do not come back."
The devil was upset at himself for its lack of knowledge about farming and left Dryden and his land alone for the rest of his life.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
I was ten years old when I wrote it.
One lone sentence. A sentence that would become my mantra; the sentence that defines my existence.
I wish I were dead.
I first wrote it in my journal. Then a couple days later, I wrote it again. Then again. And again and again and again. Until eventually, the pages had all been claimed. Each line on each page reiterated one phrase – I wish I were dead.
Although I was merely a fourth grader, this was no passing phrase (get it?). Ten years separate me from that lone sentence, yet I am ready as ever.
I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead. I WISH I WERE DEAD.
This is how I feel six days out of seven.
I can no longer count the number of failed attempts, the static loony-bin trips, the hospital hopping routine – a process I’ve memorized verbatim.
Can’t say how many times I’ve survived these garbage disposals for the insane.
You’d think if I really wanted to die, I’d be dead already. Yet, in a bizarre manner, not even the Grim Reaper wants me. I’ve consumed rat poison and lived, rolled my mom’s car and escaped without a scratch, tumbled from heights so high, yet – here I am.
One night, last summer, I mixed molly with coke with ****** with so much liquor – because liquor is quicker – thinking for certain I’d orchestrated my demise. Some of my friends were squatting in this foreclosed house, so there was no electricity, and I spent hours playing Sims with some girl in the dark.
Eventually, my computer died – but I didn’t.
The list goes on.
On this list, there’s one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. A night I’ll forever regret. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away.
This is how it went.
The Last Supper was comprised of 150 assorted pills, and some secondhand Jack Daniels.
I ate alone. I’d exchanged dining hall for bathroom; chair for bathtub. I held one lone utensil – a razor blade – nestled safely in my hand. Cradling the blade like a child who found the cookie jar – the way my boyfriend worshiped a fresh syringe of ****** I snuggled that sacred utensil.
I failed to savor this Last Supper – for dine and dash would more appropriately summarize my actions. I ravaged the meal as a stray dog would raw meat. Gagging and choking, whilst feeling nothing at all.
All those pills, that jack, I poured into a jar and chugged like a freshman in college. (Get it?) The most unconventional supper you ever did see.
My makeshift chair filled slowly with water like concrete – and soon I’d be buried alive. So I squeezed the razor tight, pretending it was a loved one’s hand instead.
Yet – nothing happened.
I considered my lone utensil – the blade – then laughed, and threw it aside. How high school of me – a time when I confused my wrist with a cutting-board. Oh, silly me; my insides could do the work without external additions.
However, the nausea hit before I’d relinquished consciousness. I feared I would toss my cookies – ones stolen from the cookie jar – before they could toss me.
An important factor to note is this was not my house. It belonged to my boyfriend’s aunt. And although she was not home – he was. Earlier, I’d thrown a knife at his head and told him I was glad Morgan died, to ensure he’d leave me be, but now I was bored and nauseous and so I got up and left the Last Supper to pursue a bad cliché I just died in your arms tonight.
What happened next is not important – I’ll fast-forward to what is.
The first to come was a young girl.
She wore her blonde hair in two braids. Her tiny body, adorned in a loose, blue dress. Her feet were sheathed in neat white socks beneath modest, black slippers; slippers that matched her headband. A headband to cradle her mind.
Her existence stupefied mine – for I knew at once who she was. And I was terrified.
This girl was coasting her eighth birthday. A birthday she’d never reach.
And yet – she was as wise as I am thin; far wiser than my nineteen-year-old self. She never spoke, but there was no need. Everyone talks, but seldom is speech genuine. Only in actions can we find the truth.
I’d waited my whole life for her. My true, beloved best friend. A girl as imaginary as could be.
Alison Wonderland.
Unfortunately, she had no intention of staying. She had no interest in my world; she’d only come to take me to hers. She’d come to take me away. Far away. Away so far I could never return.
This time – finally – I’d be gone for good.
My whole life I’d waited; now, she’d finally come. Not to join my life. She’d come to watch me die.
We both knew my lifespan would hardly outlast the hour.
Collapsed within a shower, I floundered for words. Separated from her by a mere pane of glass. She was so close. And yet, I was far from happy – I’d nearly surpassed hyperventilation. Literally stunned to death.
This beautiful angel maintained composure, however; unaltered by my frigid welcome. An unwavering smile illustrated her entire physic, whilst she offered her hand to mine – arm outstretched and waiting.
The ultimate invitation.
However, we were not alone. Not two, but three souls occupied this bathroom. The bathroom of my Last Supper.
On my side of the glass was a man. A man I knew. A man I loved. A man whose manhood was verified by little more than age – 25. Whilst numbers generally distinguish between childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, he was much more a boy than a man. His maturity – vastly negated by defining characteristics. You see, this 25-year-old boy was also a pathological liar, a sociopath, and a ****** addict. He was the stranger your mommy warned you not to talk to – and he was my boyfriend.
My boyfriend, our third addition, was christened Daniel no-middle-name Rodden. An alias more accurately spelled Rotten – which I knew, but refused to accept. So instead, he was just Danny.
Anyways.
I surrendered consciousness slowly. I was crumpled, trembling and mumbling, grappling to sit up or speak.
With all my strength I pointed, terrified and confused, at Alison.
“How is she here?” I wanted to scream. “How’d she get in? What’s happening?”
“What are you talking about?” Danny’s voice wondered. “There’s no one out there. I promise I promise.”
He must have been blind. For Alison remained, hand outstretched, waiting and waiting.
However, Danny Rotten and Alison Wonderland could not see each other. Nor could they hear or feel one another. They existed within uncorrelated dimensions. They were, in fact, entirely irrelevant to one another, compromised by one single factor. Me. Because not only was I physically dying – directly between them (monkey in the middle?) – my consciousness floundered amidst their two wonderlands.
But this was temporary, for we all knew I had less than an hour to make a choice; a life with this toxic boy, or a death with this loving girl. Death, which I’d coveted since I was ten. This decision could not be undone; I could not keep them both.
I never took this hand I was offered – Alison Wonderland’s – I clung to Danny instead. A decision I’ll forever regret. But I had yet to meet the Grimm Reaper.
Somehow, I’d been transported back into the bathtub. I sat back at the table of my Last Supper. Only, this time, I was not to dine alone.
I remember Danny’s face – if only for a split second – covering mine. His handsome, Spanish features contorted in fear; even mussed and wet, his dark hair swam across his forehead with graceful finesse.
On his face I’d never seen such emotion, nor will I ever again.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, I lost sight of that face. I knew he was speaking, perhaps even yelling, his physic – inches from my own. But then, the stampede arrived, trampling him whole.
Empty handed, Alison might have left. But this evaded me.
For into the room poured innumerable intruders. My ghostly escort, it would appear. Some spoke to me, some avoided. Some set up a poker game in the corner – waiting on my choice – whilst others conjured chairs like rabbits from a hat. Chairs they set up around this bathtub. Enveloped in bodies, my Final Supper had become a banquet of sorts. Danny tried to hand me a bucket, to throw up my poison, but I was so weak I couldn’t have held it had I wanted to.
Out of all these people – souls I presumed dead – I recognized only two faces.
Preston and Henry. Two boys I knew – and although ****** addicts, they were alive and well. Not ghosts like the rest. However, within the next two weeks those two would both overdose and nearly die.
Coincidence? I think not. Yet, I digress.
That was when he appeared, for above the bathtub stood a window. Outside that window, I glimpsed a man. A man I’d been chasing since I was ten.
Mister Grimm. I remember not his attire, nor any defining details, only the expression on his face as his eyes singed my own. Complete and utter hatred and malice, with fatal intentions. He looked to me as his arch nemesis – and had I invited him in, he would have given me what I’d always wanted. I knew this to be true.
I knew also that, although Alison had appeared to be the defining choice, she was not. This man was. And in that pivotal moment, I began to scream.
I screamed for Danny – to make this Grimm go away, to tell him to leave.
Danny did. And when I next looked up, the man was no more. Gone, too, was everyone else. I took Danny’s bucket, hurled, and knew no more.
This is one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away. A night I’ll forever regret. Sometimes, however, I wonder if it was not mister Grim I was looking at, but Danny’s reflection: the monster he soon became.
Or, perhaps, it was not a male I saw in that window.
Perhaps, It was myself.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
Hey there Cinderella
watch your every step
for every path you take
is only made of glass.
Wake up Briar Rose
the fairies dance
and the dragons burn
while you slumber on.
Be careful Snow White
don't trust those who
bitterly believe
in only what they see.
Let it go Rapunzel
there's a world out there
once upon a discovery
a time to remember.
Don't hide Mulan
sleep is not worth the stay
better to fight to die
than left behind to cry.
Goodbye Arial
don't lose your song
while leaving your home
with your heart by your side.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
So much depends
Upon
The broken, splintered mirror.
Showing the grimm one that hides
Skin deep.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
The old lady planted roses near the corner by the driveway
She never planted roses by the door
I remember once she told me, "Bees come out to get the nectar"
And a bee sting can be deadly or quite sore
Instead, she planted herbs along the walkway to her cottage
You'd pass by, the scent was rather nice
Rubbing rosemary and lemon grass and sage against your trousers
Sometimes you would even walk by twice
She had hollyhocks and primrose, a classic English garden
Lots of fragrant trees and bushes there as well
There were cedars by the windows and hyacinth close by
If she even had a lawn, you couldn't tell
There were irises and tulips, daffodils and more
And great bushes of white lavender abound
Not only was the lawn gone, with the bushes and the trees
I bet from inside you'd nary hear a sound
Around the back the same thing, exactly as the front
Herbs and plant life, and I'd say maybe more
Than all the plants in Englands Kew Gardens have to see
And more lilacs by the walkway by the door
The vents from down the basement blew through cedars and the lilacs
Sending warming scents around the clustered yard
There were windows to the basement, blocked by flowers and the trees
And to see in was really rather hard
The one day I remember when I came out to the house
Is one I know I'll not forget
For walking down the pathway with a policeman on each side
Was the old lady with a look of deep regret
It seems the scented flowers and the bushes and the trees
Provided scents to hide the smells from deep inside
The air was vented out directly through the flowers
The house was just a grow op in disguise
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
Many inquire why I'm so sadistic
Cold blooded
Callous
Barbarous
By this point, I'm sure your insufficient minds ponder who or what I am
Once you find out, you will surely be ******
I live in everyone, but only appear when the time is right
Many dread when I blacken their light
I eat souls for breakfast, prey on the weak
I often leave my companions with a streak
What am I? You ask
And I will tell
i am death that dwells
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
Ring around the rosie,
We ripped off all their tosies.
Run all you wish; all the more delish.
The idea of your ****** gets cozy.
Row, row, row your boat,
To the sound of screams.
The body in the bag is starting to sag,
But by morning it'll feel like a dream.
Jack and Jill went out to ****
To **** their abusive father.
Jill got drowned when Dad was found,
And Jack forgot all about her.
Mary had a little lamb
With a secret in its wool;
See, it fed upon its owners' souls,
And with Mary he'd be full.
Rock-a-by baby,
On the cliff's side.
We see now you're not human,
There's no place to hide.
And, though we are scared,
Our armies will come,
And, one way or 'nother, this horror be done.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
I remember as a child-
peeking over the window,
to a ticking sound,
from a pitch black cloak,
hiding a creature on the ground.
A shadow of a haunting sparrow,
with a knife atop a pole.
I simply stared and giggled,
as I felt the lifeless soul.
Unsure of what to think,
I believe I heard a voice.
Said it, "I weaved a basket."
Then left he, a silent noise.
Baffled!
The atmosphere was like scent so taint.
"The basket soon has become a case."
The words were wispy and growing faint,
like the words were sent away.
I was hesitant to follow it,
and I don't recall why I didn't.
I found myself the sturdy floor,
and my friend,
'the cloaked one' was now no more.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC