

The KnifeI can feel it Deep inside my coat pocket- Steel, cold, smooth, My left hand toys with the end I grasp it, prepared.The Knife
Wandering I am going nowhere, From nowhere, in-between somewhere, Anywhere that I end up As long as I’m there.
The air is cold I am only wearing a light jacket- But I can’t feel the cold I walk steadily, alone And notice the white, barren stars.
Slowly Strange cars pass looking Instinctively my left hand tightens As they pass I wish They would stop and know me.
I am filled fully &nbs


Former SelfOver there, in a bottle on the shelf, Is all that remains of my former self. No longer am I what my friends remember, Like the spirit of time I’ve gone forever.Former Self
Once I adored life and I was happy, I was in love with all I could see. Now I sit in a corner, alone and crying, Waiting around to finish dying.
Familiar hostilities, regret and pity, Are the only things left to accompany me. I realize that now there is no turning around, My next look at life will be from the ground


The Blind And The DeafAnd do I cry? Yes, oh yes. But do I love? Of course. I cry, I love AloneThe Blind And The Deaf
The walls turn their backs to me So that they may not see And the world hides it ears So that it may not hear.
And do I fear? Yes… But do I hope? Of course. I fear, I hope Alone.
The people refuse to behold So that they may not know And life, that bitch of how and when Took all from me that should have been.


Barricade CoveThe setting sun cast a crimson hue on the splashing waves. The beach, framing the water in the cove, was barren except for the solitary figure of a girl. She was sixteen or seventeen years old, medium build with shoulder length dark blond hair and faded clothes. Bent over, her eyes down, she trudged slowly through the sand as if she were exhausted and each step was a painful effort.Barricade Cove
Closer and closer she moved to the water, letting the rhythmic waves hit her bare feet. In one hand was clutched an object of obvious importance and her grip on it had turned turned her knuckles white. She s


I am made of paperI am made of paperI am made of paper
and I burn easily. Hold me wrong and I will cut you.
Make me moist and I will stick to you.
I am made of paper I fold easily under your fingers. Your words and pictures reflect easily on me,
sometimes they even absorb. But more likely they will fade.
I am made of paper
and you can ball me up and throw me away. You can lose me under other peices of paper. Prettier ones, safer ones, more important ones.
I am made of paper
and you can tuck me away.
Y
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"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart..." William Wordsworth
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"My dear fellow, who will let you?"
"That's not the point. The point is, who will stop me?"
~Ayn Rand
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