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 Mar 2015 Mariana Nolasco
Creep
Terry Pratchett died Thursday. He was a critically acclaimed British Fantasy Author, as well as an advocate for assisted suicide and Alzheimer's Disease. He himself was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in 2007, yet still continued to write, even after he was incapable of using a computer to write (he used a dictation machine afterwards). Before his death at the age of 66, he wrote the popular "Discworld" series consisting of four books, as well as one of my personal favorites, "The Wee Free Men." He was inspirational for me as a writer and he changed my view of writing. With his books, I found my writing style. There are no words to express my awe at his life and works, nor are there words to express my deep sadness in which I tell you that he has passed. May he rest in peace and reach a world even better than that of Discworld.

“There's always a story. It's all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything's got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld, #32)
Well Mr. Pratchett, you've changed the story.
One of my favorite authors... He inspired me greatly and changed my perspective on the traditional aspects of writing. Hope he's somewhere better now.
Downtrodden
Emotions
Prevent seeing the
Reason for
Existing;
Satisfaction and
Success are
Irrelevant amongst feelings
Of
Numbness.
[composed on March 2-4, 2014]
She's told...

Be Strong
Be Perfect
Never show weakness
Or be vulnerable

Nothing prepares her
as she slowly falls apart

How does she
pick up the pieces?
2/24/2015
krs
l am the familiar unfamiliar.
I am a house of bones working as your cage of sorrow.
I am the three o’clock suicide hotline call your mom doesn’t know about.
I am your shallow breathing.
On a clear, cold night I am the emerald flash
Of the dying sun on the ocean.
Blink, and I’ll be gone.
I am the lukewarm coffee you force yourself to finish at the cafe.
Bitter, cold, and disappointing,
But you can’t stop drinking.
You once told me that coffee was the only thing keeping you alive,
So I pulled the plug on the machine.
I am the regret you throw up from your weekend binging routines,
Spilling from your mouth and falling off your lips like lava.
You could never keep me down.
I am Van Gogh, cutting my own ear off
In attempts to get your love.
I didn’t realize that giving it to you meant throwing a piece of myself away.
I am the earthquake that shattered the foundation of Los Angeles
just because I could.
After all, you always said you liked disaster.
On the nights that you actually manage to sleep, I am the spider
That crawls into your mouth.
It’s always been my favorite place to go.
I will love you like a mother loves her unborn child,
Cherishing the sight of blood just because it reminds me of you.
I am the two things you hate the most,
Paper cuts and taxes.
I am the two things you love the most,
Smoking and forgetting.
When you go to light your lucky, I am the kiss
Between the flame and the paper:
Something you only want to do once.
But you don’t have a smokers cough for no reason.
I am the desire in a baby’s grip to hold his mothers hand.
But, I am the mother who never cared.
I am not the tropical showers everyone wishes for,
But the devastating monsoons.
I am the reason storms are named after people.
When the winds are howling and your fingers are blistered with frostbite,
You can count on me to not be there.
Your mother always warned you to wear a seatbelt,
For fear of a collision.
I am the windshield your head crashes through when you don’t listen,
Carving the word
“Guilt”
Into your scalp.
I only wanted to see how your brain worked
When you weren’t thinking of me.
I am the look on your best friends face when he catches you
Sleeping with his girlfriend.
I am the teeth you lose from the punch;
Hide me under a pillow and I’ll disappear.
I am your ravenous drug habit,
Breathe me in enough and I’ll give you a high
You could have never imagined.
I am addiction.
I am withdrawal.
I am the lies of God and the hope for redemption
At your AA meetings.
Talk me up enough and I’ll be truer than your fathers gambling habit.
I am the tears that fall from your grandfathers eyes
When you tell him about the last time you tried to **** yourself.
After all, it was just yesterday.
I am the stones you placed in your pockets
And the icy river you plunged yourself into.

I am not the stranger who saved you.


I will never be the one to save you.
I,
After
Leaving,
Have been in
The most pain,
The most strain.
It’s a good thing
I love His Name.

After leaving I feel lost.
To my life it’s a huge cost.
I find that I have been changed
That my whole life was rearranged.

After leaving my mind tries its best to cope.
It’s almost as if I’ve let go of a rope
And without it I feel so alone.
So I search for a new home.

After leaving I look for new friends.
So that a new chapter I can begin.
But in them I search for what is “wrong.”
For it’s the warmth of welcome my mind longs.

After leaving I see how I’ve been separated
From my sisters whom I am indebted.
I see how I’ve been embedded.
I see where I was headed.

After leaving I see
I was on the path to believe
That if I was to stay in the church
I must see them as the only place to search.

That I must only be with the “brothers” it seems,
That I have to wait ‘till I graduate to search for love.
You must not think you can throw out our God’s dreams
For it’s listening to Him that we find true peace from above.

Our wonderful God wants us to be in love with Him,
Not necessarily to fall in love with his bride.
Yes we should trust and listen to them,
But not if we feel Him from aside,
Whispering in our small ears
Something different,
Something clear.

He told me to leave.
He knew it would be hard.
He knew I would not go at first,
But our Lord, to me, did not bombard.
He did not give up until I was relieved.
It’s all just a balance that is off.
I feel sorry for them.
I wish that this
could come
to an
end


.
.
..

But
Should
I feel sorry
For them? Does
It even make sense
To have these feelings?
For without them I was lost.
Without them I was not soft.
They helped me become
Like the tree.

.
..
...
It’s
Like
Water from
A tap, dripping
On my head
Always

.
..
..
...
Only
To mess
With my mind.
It drips slowly, It isn’t kind.
For it wants me to go on my own,
Instead of keeping God on the phone.
The drops fall on my head one by one,
Little by little my mind comes undone
Perhaps it will never stop dripping,
Perhaps it will not stop ripping
Perhaps it won't stop.

.
..
..
...
When?
Will it stop?
Please stop.
Please.


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[composed on April 3-4, 2012]
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