Pain and Hate

I walk alone
on an ever ending path
followed by pain and hate
from the past
Thrown on this road of white and red
with a blinding light at the end
i recall what he did
to cause me this pain
i remember what he did
to cause me this hate
my mind searing
with bloody rage
my voice cries out
with heartfelt anguish
theres just one thing
that can finish my trials
i know the only way
to end all of this
ill seek revenge
untill the days turns black
when the sun dies
and kills us all
youll pay with your life
in the fires of hell
my road is turning red
and my blinding light is blackening
my road is ending
and my plans yet to be complete
but dont you worry
i wont forget
ill come back
me and my revenge
waiting to strike
when you have your back turned
ill strike
me and my revenge

this is a part one and ill start on part 2 but i dont when

Beautiful writings, everyone. You're all very talented! I tend to write long, wordy pieces of original fiction that are beta-read but never get around to being posted. >.<

This is based off some issues in my real life

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The curtains are drawn
In a tiny room deep down
The queen sits in her throne
Donned in a painful crown

Three men surround her
All vying for her soul
Each with purposes their own
Vying for their whole

She sits mortified
Pulling from the face, her hair
She is strapped down tight
In her electric chair

One man approaches
Dark hands upon her pale shoulders
He bends his head down at her
She jerks away from his holsters

He flips a switch
Sending her into pain
A shock running down her soul
Before she must be slain

One man vies her love
And forces the switch down
Unwillingly, flipping the second
She glares with a tortured frown

He cannot get her
His life is seemingly lost
But she cannot accept his push
Her love for him is like frost

The last man does not move
Only staring with lightened eyes
He wishes only his safety for her
Not touching switches, not moving ties

She cares for him more than them
And she knows he treats her well
But he is lost and floating off in space
She may grab it, or would she fail

Her savior may be one of those men
In the loveless world, she can’t see
She sees the fourth figure of her savior
Or is it the shadow of one of those three

And she looks at the wall
Most switches flipped to her demise
Her eyes dull down, her soul drops
And before her, her dwindling time flies

Man, there have been alot of posts since I have been on here last. I had to go to bed sometime. Ya'll missed me, admit it... :D

I never did find that story I was looking for. I probably just threw it away and forgot about it. But, I do however remember one small line out of a fight scene in my story:

"He tore through his chest with his bare hands, holding the man's heart, still beating in his palm..."

Yeah that was my favorite line out of the whole thing. Go figure, I am morbid, and would probably do that to someone myself if provoked. I am crazy, don't ask.

Here are some more poems for you. I am typing them up as fast as I can. Be patient!

Suicide Note
April 12, 2006

I closed the largest door in history.
I ended the largest chapter in my book.
I brought the soldiers back home just to kill them.
I saved myself without saying a word.

There was no one dead or alive that could help me.
I could have told you that without taking a look.
I ripped the petal right off the stem.
'You love me not' took no time to observe.

There was no effort in paying this fee.
I stole my bearings like a crook.
My garment torn from the hem,
Was all that I needed for my body to curve.

My anguish helped my soul to flee.
One last breath was all it took.
Now I hang from this old elm.
This wooded grave is all I deserve.

Unarmed Man
May 11, 2006

Why must I run from an unarmed man
Who does all he can
To appear as a threat?
When was it that my life began?
It was almost forgotten
And really hasn't started yet.
I don't believe it ever will
As long as my elders have time to kill.
I would like for it to stop.
I must spend my days lying dead still
while they force me to do their will.

This one is a little on the perverted side. Not too bad, but it hints around some, so if you are offended easily, please, stop reading here. Thank you.
Shetta Three (Cannibal)
April 26, 2006

There you are again,
My goddess of the darkness.
Dancing your way through my mind
Like a ballerina on a stage.

For you there is no when
Because your beauty is ageless.
It is you I have in mind.
Your beauty is impossible to gauge.

I want you, but I don't believe it will ever happen.
You are more beautiful than any actress.
Would you be mine if we were entwined?
Together, trapped in our dirty cage.

You are foxy, and sugar sweet
Like a gumdrop or a berry.
I could stare at you all day long
And lick you down like an animal.

You are the girl I'd love to eat.
I could cover you with chocolate and cherries.
The way I think might be wrong,
But you make me feel like a cannibal.

I love to paint your shape so free
And picture us making merry.
I wish I could sing you this song,
But I really can't sing at all.

Grapes, vanilla or cinnamon
Couldn't taste as good as you.
If I ever spilt you on the floor,
I would lick you up rather than mop.

We could bathe together in juice and gin,
Or I could just have some Shetta stew.
In the bed or in a store,
I really don't care as long as I'm on top.

Feeling like this must be a sin,
But one look from you and my heart flew.
I wish I could say more,
But it is probably safer if I stop.

Well, I don't want to stop yet,
But it really isn't that surprising.
You stir up so many emotions
That I just can't quit now.

Thinking about you makes me forget
About everyone's rumors and lying.
Being with you is like drinking a potion.
It is, but I just don't know how.

There is nothing between us I could regret,
Mainly because we haven't started trying.
We haven’t became an item yet
But the possibility is mistifying.

“Damn. Why do girls have to talk so much,” Tyler muttered as he awaited the end of Alexia’s daily bathroom chit-chat extravaganza. A couple of freshmen struggling with their text books sported confused looks as they beheld the upper-classman impatiently standing in front of the Girl’s Room.

“Do you need to use the restroom, guy? ‘Cause the one you want is over there,” the smaller one remarked, pointing down the hall a bit. As soon as his arm went up, his history book went down. Oh the tragedy of frail limbs.

“Shouldn’t you be catching a ride home with your mom?” was Tyler’s defiant retort.

“Shortie!” the poor child cried as he picked up his books and dashed down the hall to the school entrance.

“Wha’!?” Lack-jawed shock and anger found its way to Tyler’s visage and remained for about 30 seconds until the restroom door opened revealing a relatively average-looking blonde, who obviously thought she was all that and a bag of chips.

“Hey, Alexia. Loser-boy is making weird faces again!” She said, with a sort of concern. It was the sort of concern you would have if there was a large strand of black hair floating in your favorite soup, and it did not in the least bit sound like a friendly or motherly concern.

Tyler’s eyes narrowed. He had a somewhat witty remark already planned, but Alexia’s arched brow was enough to stop its use.

She sighed. “Oh, Tyler. I thought we went over this: funny faces are one of the things that get you picked on. I really think you should stop.” Alexia proceeded to pat him on the head, flattening his cowlick in the process.

Tyler slouched and rolled his eyes. Once Alexia’s well-manicured hand was withdrawn, Tyler immediately ruffled his hair back to normality and took a breath. “So, what are we doing today?” he queried.

The blonde snapped close a compact powder she had been fiddling with. “I believe you.... Are carrying our…” She abruptly dropped her book bag in Tyler’s arms. “…books.” She tittered and turned away from him, waiting for his obedient servitude.

“Margie, I am so no carrying your…” Her bag hit the ground with a large thud. “…books. Kay?” He tilted his head and smiled utilizing his best imitation of her.

“Alexia!” came the exasperated groan.

“Yes, Margie?”

“Why do you even hang out with Loser Boy if he’s not carrying our books!?” Her face scrunched up. She was about to go into one of those hysteric, pouty fits she was famous for.

“Uh, friend!” she replied displaying Tyler as Vana White would. “Duh.”

With a final screechy groan, Margie stomped down the same route the freshman had only 5 minutes earlier. The two friends just watched her departure, and flinched a bit when she ran into the garbage can at the corner.
Tyler, not finished with his fun, knelt down and returned to normal height delicately holding Margie’s book bag just as if it were a rare artifact found in a dig. “Uh, think she’ll be missing this?” He asked through a toothy grin.

His companion just held back a laugh and lightly elbowed him the shoulder. “Give me that, dweeb.” She shook her head, barely concealing a smile, and flung the bag over her own shoulder.

lol I have a small.... erm, story. Or part of one. A novel. Tell me what you think.
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Prologue: The End of an Era

The gray dusk was fading into the darkness of night when the refugees heaved themselves over the hill to escape the impending doom. Behind them, the glittering metropolis of Bordales lay unsuspecting in the foothills of the Rivet Mountains. The refugees who dared to look back wept as they wished so desperately for their friends, family, and neighbors to be with them. As the leader of the refugees, Girve had to keep his people moving.
“Please, keep moving. We don’t know when the attack will come.” He quickly grew irritated at the general hesitance of people as they stared at the city behind them. He knew that if they didn’t move quickly, they would all be caught in the blast.
The stars were just beginning to appear as Girve finally tore himself and the refugees from the sight of Bordales. As most of the crowd vanished over the hill, little Tora, daughter of Mirn and Rhene, pointed up at the sky.
“Look!”
All eyes turned upward to gaze upon the doom of their country. While, to casual glance, the beacon looked like a star, the group knew that what their eyes beheld was the beacon created by their neighboring country, Penzara, to annihilate them. With a mad dash, the group scattered, trying to avoid the explosion, but it was too late. A bright beam of light focused on the center of Bordales, originating from the Penzaran satellite.
Screams erupted from the metropolis as people finally realized that they were going to die. Then, searing flames of plasma shot down the beam and executed thousands upon contact. Numerous explosions rocked the ground the small group of refugees stood, or -in many cases- laid upon. Then the missiles were launched. As Bordales desperately tried to defend herself, numerous bombs were dropped from the Penzaran satellite looming ominously overhead like a vulture waiting for it’s prey to die.
Even though Bordales was an “intelligent” city, meaning it examined the needs of its citizens at determined the best course of action to protect those citizens, flaws still existed in the system. One of these flaws was evident in the attack; slow ability to retaliate. Numerous hits were scored against Bordales as the missiles she fired missed their targets. The refugees watched, horrified. They had never witnessed such destruction, and even the city elders had missed the last war by thirty years. To everyone, this was new. Mothers covered their children’s eyes, other women wept, while the men just stared.
It was impossible to comprehend what was going through Girve’s mind. His wife and two of his sons had chosen to leave Bordales with him, but his other son and daughter had remained in the city, depending on the technology to protect them. He felt a tear of remorse and pity for their situation well in his eye. But no, he had to fight it. As the leader of his small group, he could not appear weak. He had to be strong in the sorrow, a pole for all to lean on. “No, no, no! This just can’t be happening! Not to us.” He heard his wife, Jaeda, sob behind him.
Her words just repeated what the other women felt. For some, the sorrow was minimal. All of their relatives had come or lived in other cities. For most, however, their sorrow was unbearable. Many women came with only their children, if that; for some, their husbands had not heeded the warnings about the attack. Those women screamed in fear for their loved ones and tried to run back. It took all Girve and the other men present had to hold those who tried to run.
Whenever the attack appeared to relax for a moment, it just started back up again. The Penzarans had no mercy. Girve heard a gasp rise up from the group as the attack caused one of the residential towers to collapse. “Noooooo!” Tora was heard to scream. Many of her friends lived in that tower, and she couldn’t bear to see them die like that.
“Tora, don’t look. Try not to think about it,” her mother said. She was desperately trying to calm her daughter, but, to no avail. In the end, it would have been better to let Tora watch.
Two more towers collapsed due to the flames, but they were not yet completed. The intelligent city system was not yet completely operational; if it had been there might have been a quicker response to the attack. However, the defenses needed were still being held in a warehouse, completely useless. While it had proven successful in raids in other major cities, this system was the proving ground for the latest advancements in Aquarian technology, and the installment for systems as such on the capitol of Atlantis. The explosions on the west side of the city drew their attention away from that fact. The power center of the city had collapsed, sending plumes of noxious gasses billowing towards the sky.
The two moons of their planet had risen, allowing the crowd perched on the hill to glimpse what was happening to their city in the haunting light, making it seem all the more depressing. Screams erupted as the remaining towers were engulfed in flames that were thousands of degrees in temperature. The beacon, which had been forgotten in the din, now released its full fury.
The explosion wiped out what was left of Bordales and the surrounding rural areas. The flash emitted from the explosion blinded the refugees for minutes, perhaps longer. When they again could see, many ventured to the edge of a charred area to peek at the remains of the metropolis. What they saw shocked even the most steadfast of them.
The footprint of the city was a burning circle, surrounded by the charred countryside that had once been meadows and farms that were immaculately kept. Many wept as they realized that the city that they loved for so long was now gone forever. Little Tora reached out as if to touch the place where the city stood, and then burst into tears.
Girve, too, was devastated. He had harbored a hope that he could return to the city and see his other children again, but this hope was now, too, lost forever. He couldn’t bear to stomach the sight anymore, and turned away from the others. He had a hard time holding down the bile that was rising in his throat.
Someone in the crowd exclaimed, “Where’s the beacon?” Gasps erupted from the survivors as they looked in the sky and found only the two familiar moons and the billowing smoke from the smoldering ruins of the city.
___________________________________________________________

Some were still weeping as the crowd moved toward the southern horizon, on their way to another city or town to escape from their past and start anew. Girve forced the survivors to move southward, escaping the rising heat of the fires and suffocating smell of the smoke. Sobbing turned slowly into mourning, which began a throng of sighs and recurring waves of tears. Nothing could be done for the witnesses to escape the horror of that night. Hoping that the next city south had room for their group of almost 200, they set forth, not even aware that the same destruction that had taken Bordales had taken every other major city in the Empire of Aquarius to the grave as well. There was no hope for shelter for 10 ranges in any direction. They and the other survivors of various attacks were all that was left of the Empire, and they hadn’t a clue.

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lol I'm lame. >< Feel free to kill me. :bricks:

ps. I have a Chapter 1 written up, if you'd like to read it.

All of your stories are very nicely done and well written. *Pats on back* Nice job.

i love writing stories but ti's that they are all written in dutch, my home language otherwise i would post them. and besides i suck in english and they're just stories from a 14 year old girl, so not really what you want to read. But hey, i will tru to translate it,

He stood by and watched his sweetheart, so young and thin and beautiful, sitting on her front stairs and waiting for the mail carrier; she would often sit there for hours, waiting for this one person to bring her one simple thing. When she would see him pass by the house next door, she would leap to her feet and rush out to meet him, the long, delicate locks of hair floating about her head and shoulders as she ran; he would hold out a yellowed envelope and she would snatch it away and thank him excitedly before checking to make sure the handwriting was his and running back into the house to respond.

Time passed in the blink of an eye, and he watched her enthusiastic snatching of his envelopes slowly etch away until he saw a sophisticated young woman sitting before him, this time on the porch instead of the steps. She wore brightly-colored and often white dresses that fit her curves well, standing tall and erect and perfect with her hands folded neatly in her lap, and upon the arrival of the mail carrier she would slowly rise and walk out to meet him and thank him with a smile and a nod. Today he gave her a small package; he watched her glide back up the stairs and sit in her chair as she opened it to find a silver necklace inside. He had sent it to her for her twentieth birthday.

More time passed; she grew taller and thinner and her hair and dresses did with her. She began to wear her fine locks of hair back in a chignon, letting a few strands fall loose around the sides of her face and proudly displaying the necklace she had received. He now saw her walk to his home every other day to speak with his family, her head held high and her posture perfect, her hands lifted to show off the engagement ring he had given her before he had left for war. For her twenty-first birthday, he sent her a pair of golden earrings.

And then, one day, his letter failed to arrive. She waited for it until dusk, thinking that perhaps it had come late; when it didn’t come, she went back inside and told her mother, “His letter didn’t come today. Perhaps it is late; it will come tomorrow.” And still, after her mother and father had retired for the night, she took her coat and sat in the rocking chair on the porch, waiting and hoping until she fell asleep at around three in the morning.

He stared at her sleeping form and broke down in sorrow; with silent tears, he knelt next to her chair and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, chanting, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. When he placed his head on her shoulder, she woke; staring at the places warmed by his touch, she neither moved nor said a thing. He felt her worries and hidden distress being soothed away by the warm embrace and knew that she could feel the tears drip onto her arm even though there was no wetness there when she looked. She fell back asleep with a feeling of comfort, knowing that someone, somewhere, was watching over her with love.

And still, with the next passing day no letter arrived for her. Fearing something had happened, she walked calmly with her head still held high and the diamond flashing on her finger to his home. She told his parents that she had not received letters from him, and they were concerned; they promised her that she would be the first to know if any word of him came.

She waited for a week with no letters to comfort her, and then one morning his sister came running to her doorstep and collapsed, sobbing, into her arms. They had received a letter notifying them that he had been killed in France on April 18. Through the shock, she said, “No, perhaps it is wrong; London must have found the wrong person. It must be a mistake.” His sister told her that it could not be; with the letter they had sent the half-written message that they had used to identify his body, and it had been addressed to her.

Not wishing to believe, she accompanied his sister back to his home and read the letter herself; upon seeing the message that they had sent with, her name written at the top, she broke down in tears and held the letter to her chest, bent over with her head near her knees; it was true. Her love was gone. That night, wearing a black dress, she fell asleep on the porch yet again, waiting for his letters and not wanting to accept his departure. When she woke the next morning, and for every morning she slept on the rocking chair afterwards, she woke to the feeling of a warm pair of arms around her shoulders and the strange feeling of fresh tears on her arm.

I found this in a pile of my things. I think it's the very first creative writing I'd ever done, or at least kept. It was written November 10, 1982

Cry To The Moon

Asleep in the night
Awoken by touch
Different than before
Something is wrong
The smell of beer
The moon through the window
Cry to the moon
She silenty cries back
I feel her tears on my cheeks
Old life is over
New life begun
Guilt and pain
My fault
Always and ever my fault

I love finding old things...




What is love?

I thought I knew that day I married her, the beautiful woman two years older than me with the warm, beautiful lips and the dark, sparkling eyes. I thought I knew every moment from then on that I spent with her, when I held her in my arms and didn't let go. And when she died, I thought I could never love anything again.

What is love? What defines it? What does one feel, what does one think, when around someone they think they love? Are they nervous, sweating, fidgeting, unable to take their eyes off of the incredible beauty but afraid to look? Is it the wish to spend the rest of their lives with one individual? It is so complicating, a backstabbing and traitorous emotion; cold, distant, unfeeling. After seventeen years I should have put it behind me.

But what is love?

I loved a woman once; her name was Ariana. When she was gone, I filled the empty hole her death had torn with my children. I spent every moment I could with them; I taught them, I trained them, I gave them my soul. Two decided not to return their favor, and the hurt I felt for their betrayal was slowly patched over by the girl from a different country that became like the daughter I never had. Vhe Sadur, age 16, a high school dropout and a runaway, entered my life at a time when both of us were in desperate need of help. As strangers, we helped each other; as friends, we exchanged favors. As father and daughter, we lived.

That, to me, is love.

-Kael Ramsden

This is what happens when I find pictures like this on the Internets. (If it gives you a forbidden sign, just hit enter) Therefore, I blame this one on that picture and SSChan, who somehow inspired me to do an Evelyn/Vlad fic. Hats off to you, woman. (I'll warn you guys - swearing. Lots of it. KTHX.)




Vlad woke to a piece of tape binding his eyes shut, a rag (tasting rather oddly of laundry detergent) shoved into his mouth and tied tightly around the back of his neck, his hands and feet bound to a straight-backed wooden - oak, perhaps - chair, a massive headache, and the awful craving for a cigarette.

Even though they were closed, his eyes blinked. "Mmmmph." What the hell had he been doing last night? He vaguely remembered being in the bathtub, hearing glass shatter, and going up to see what it was - then nothing. From the throbbing on the side of his head, he cleverly deduced that something hard had smacked it. Probably a candlestick or vase. He scrunched his cheek, felt a thin coating of something crack and pop at the wrinkles. Blood, most likely. "Mmph." The grunt was different from the first; while the first one had been a groan of grogginess, this one was a grunt of mild annoyance, of feeling dirty at having something as unsightly as blood touching his face. God, did he need a cigarette.

Were the ropes around his wrists tight? He checked them blindly for leverage, found them to be well tied. Professional, maybe. The bastard even tied the knots on the underside of the armrests. His teeth ground against the rag and he rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to get the taste of detergent from it. Ugh. At least they could have washed this more thoroughly. Vlad shifted his weight back, checking the durability of the chair, heard it groan at a moderate amount of pressure. Oak, definitely. New oak. Wrapping his fingers around the edges of the armrests and wrapping his bound ankles around the legs of the chair, his back arched forward as he coiled himself in preparation to snap the chair clean in two when he felt the barrel of a gun gently, playfully graze the skin of his cheekbone.

Goddamnit.

He felt long, perfectly manicured nails scratch away a corner of the slab of tape over his eyes, then all of a sudden it was ripped clear off his face - taking his eyelashes and half of his eyebrows with it. GOD! he started screaming, eyes watering and the entire area around them burning white-hot in searing pain. The words he screamed came out a mumble, at the very least. You took my fucking eyelashes! YOU TOOK MY FUCKING EYELASHES OFF! I have those for a reason! He still hadn't opened his eyes, the pain so intense that tears rolled down his face, his eyelids not used to such abuse. At the feeling of a gun digging through the skin of his cheek and grinding into his teeth, he paused for one moment, squinted his eyes open. He saw a woman through the hazy veil. My eyelashes, he mumbled angrily at her through the gag.

"Shut up," the woman snapped, shoving his head with the barrel. All he could suffice was a tear-filled glare through quickly reddening eyes. He hated it when someone outsmarted him. "Do you know why you're here?" Of course not, he wanted to snap at her, his teeth gnawing at the filthy rag in his mouth. How the hell am I supposed to know why I'm here when you're the one who hit me over the head with a candlestick? He felt the gun leave his gums, and took the opportunity to wipe the wetness from his eyes on his shoulder. He heard high-heeled shoes tapping against concrete and, opening his eyes, took his first look at his captor.

Oh, for the love of God, it's Evelyn.

"Capone does not appreciate the plotted assassination attempt against him, you know," the British woman purred, one hand behind her back and the other holding up the stark black handgun for her eyes to easily see, rolling her hold in multiple directions to see it from every possible angle. "But I guess that would be obvious, now, wouldn't it?" She turned back to him, and Vlad could feel the prickling beginning at the base of his spine at the woman's gaze. God, was the woman creepy, and this was quite possibly the first time he had ever seen her hold a gun with those perfect fingers. "Unfortunately..." Three steps toward him; the edge of his lip curled and he tilted away in distaste. "...our contact suddenly died while being interrogated. The only name behind the conspiracy that he gave up was yours. And so..." She leaned in close, and Vlad tilted further away. He felt dirty enough as it was, he didn't need the bitch of a woman to be contaminating him even further. She narrowed her eyes in almost a seductive manner, the glossed lips parting in a malicious smile. "...we need you to tell us who you created this plot with."

Evelyn's hand reached out and yanked the gag from his mouth, expecting an answer. "Ugh!" Vlad tried to scrape the taste from his tongue with the sharp edge of his teeth, but to no avail. "The least you could have done was completely washed that rag," he fired off in a huff. "If you think waving a gun in my face will intimidate me, you are sadly mistaken. And can I please have a cigare--" Before he could finish the thought he felt the gag shoved violently into his mouth and nearly down his throat - his lungs involuntarily sent off a loud grunt at the sudden gesture, followed by involuntary coughing, trying to get the foreign object away.

He felt the hand leave the gag and latch onto his throat, throwing his head back over the headrest at the same moment when a gun was placed to the direct center of his forehead. "You really think I give a shit about your needs?" she screeched at him, her own face only a few inches from his. From his vantage point he could see just how well-cared for her nails were. She'd definitely gone to the nail salon recently; her nails were perfect and pristine, long and straight, with elegantly painted French tips. "You know how much I hate blood," Evelyn hissed at him. "I don't want any of yours on my dress, for certain. But it looks like I won't be able to get information out of you any other way."

Evelyn's fingers were gone, the gun was gone, before he even had a chance to see them depart. Blinking rapidly, he forced the rag forward slightly with his tongue and leveled his head, watched her retreat to the other side of the room, stopped in front of a table with a lamp and a briefcase. Oak, too. You gotta be kidding me... did they actually coordinate the furniture in the room? Where the hell did the time come from? The latches on the briefcase snapped open and the lid opened; one of her delicate feminine hands reached inside and grabbed a...

Oh, for the love of -- a screwdriver.

"We have all night to play games," Evelyn hissed as she turned and moved back to him. "I'm in no rush. If you need to fear me to break, then I can make you fear me, with or without a gun."

Vlad's tongue continued to move the rag around in his mouth, trying hard to get it from between his teeth. At least, success - it popped out of his mouth and fell down near his chin. He spit detergent-tasting saliva on the ground near his feet before turning back up to Evelyn with a charming smile.

"Let the games begin," he purred.

In an attempt to bring this thread back, here's a little something of mine. I'm not sure how good it is- the imagery was difficult to evoke. It's the prologue to a story I've been writing about the Trojan War from Achilles' point of view. Hope you enjoy it .

Vanity kills men.

Its ominous stench can be sensed from miles away, the foul odor of blood and brine upon the evening wind that causes the fine hair on the back of your neck to stand up. It incants the death and misery to come, making a sepulchral shiver run down your spine as you turn your back as if to will the approaching destruction away.

But vanity never dies.

It rides on menacing black wings, swooping over ravaged battlefields and pillaged cities without ever alerting you to its presence. But you don’t need to be told- the death around you is evidence enough that its penchant for agonizing chaos has left an obvious trail of destruction in its path.

Vanity robs ethereal children of their innocence, leaving dirtied faces and deadened eyes that have seen too much death in its wake. It ignites wars that are never forgotten by mankind, taking lives of those that should be left alive and leaving those who shouldn’t. It provides an endless wealth of power to kings too self-centered to do any public good, and rejoices in sweet misery when it sees that destruction is laid and that its job is done.

And that eerie shiver runs up your spine again, the hair on the back of your neck prickling forebodingly as another storm brews. Your subconscious urges you to run, but you assure yourself that it won’t happen to you. You carry on, blissfully unaware of vanity’s caress upon your shoulder and the obliteration that it plans to lay.

And as the sea-wind blows by and ruffles your hair delicately, you feel that blood-chilling sense of foreboding. That thick, fatal anxiety that seems warning enough that the end will come.

And come it will, for no mortal can avoid death.

Decaying bodies, unburied and reeking, lying upon fields long gone fallow. Once powerful stone walls that have fallen to ruin, crumbling and eroding until all that remains is the husk of yesterday’s empire. Widows that die a little more each die, eagerly awaiting Hades so that they may reunite with a lost loved one, a sweet reunion poisoned by the bitter tang of death.

Vanity: killer of men, burner of cities, robber of innocence.

Killer of me.

A little morbid, but that was my intention. Hope it wasn't too long.

Not taking my eyes off the pair, I slowly backed away from the cover of bushes, keeping a low profile. The cat under my right arm began to squirm in discomfort, and I realized I'd been squeezing him in my anxiety. I scurried around the lot until I was sure I wouldn't be spotted, and then ran to my Jeep parked around the corner. I set the cat down in the passenger seat and dug into my jeans for my keys. After a brief moment of panic, I discovered them in the pocket of my jacket. I started up the Jeep; I prayed the couple wouldn't hear the rumble of the engine. I began to drive back the way I'd come and watched to see if I was being followed. My head swam with all of the things I'd seen in the past two hours. What was that pile of rotting carnage? Was it human or animal? I couldn't even wrap my brain around the idea of my friend being a murderer or even some kinky psychomaniac.



It all started with Hannah. She and I met one evening at my cousin's house for a 4th of July barbeque. Ryan and I went and my niece Amber was there. She was brought by her nanny /"babysitter" Hannah Carroll, who was some new age hippy type girl that seemed a tad flaky. Hannah also brought her husband--a dark-haired, scary looking dude that looked like a mean New-Yorker. During the course of the evening, Hannah and I hit it off, due to my knowledge of astrology (she kept turning to her man (Zack) and kept exclaiming "She's so -insert flattering adjective here-". Flattering words like 'smart' and stuff. She also raved about my red hair (her own was brownish-blonde). I smiled and told her it was from a bottle—my own hair was dark blonde. She also kept comparing our behavior patterns, as she was a Gemini like me. I explained to her that my rising sign was Pisces, which was why I was more mellowed-out. She just laughed.



Hannah and I agreed to hang out some other time, and she of course would bring Amber along, since she's the babysitter. I didn't object, since I rarely get to see the kid as it is, being we live too far away, and my ex-sister in law wasn't prone to stopping in for a visit (she was getting re-married, and it's not to my brother again).


So Hannah met me at a store nearby in town, and brought Pnut (Amber) with her. Only problem was, Pnut's hair was a bright orangey-red, and cut off really short, as though close-cropped hair made the orange less noticeable. I looked questioningly at Hannah, who burst into tears and informed me Amber tried to dye her hair red like mine (guilty feeling washing me as I'm being told this) and it came out bad. Hannah admitted to cutting the hair, thinking somehow that would help the situation. I asked her "You could always cover it with a darker color, although the red tones will still show through. My mother had to help me with a bad highlight job--skunk chunks in my hair, starting 2 inches from the root." We bought four boxes of that Clairol hair bleach to strip out ALL the color (and left it on my hair well-past the recommended length of time). We then put four boxes' worth of the Garnier Nutrisse over it (Brown Sugar #63, ironically enough) and my hair was fairly normal looking.



Hannah looked at me gratefully and stated she'd go buy the bleach and dye. "I guess I'll get the same color for Amber, since her hair color was similar to your natural dark blonde. I nodded and she smiled at me. I started to smile and then stopped.



"Wait--how are you going to explain the hair cut to Debra?" I asked. Hannah looked down and sighed.



"I guess I'll have to own up to that." she responded. "I'll catch you later, Kristie."


Two weeks later, Ryan and I went to visit her at their place and have dinner. We showed up and Zack let us in.



"She's still getting ready. Would you like a drink?" he inquired. We both shook our heads and went to sit on the couch. Ryan attempted to make small talk, while Zack responded with grunts and "mm-hmms" the whole time. He seemed to keep staring at me when Ryan was distracted by the T.V. and I couldn't figure out what was so interesting. Thinking I might've had something on my face, I excused myself and went looking for a bathroom. I noticed a bedroom on my left that was decorated in pink, with a twin bed covered with stuffed animals. Did the Carrolls have a daughter? Hannah never mentioned any children. I assumed they weren't the parental type. I finally found the bathroom, and inspected my face. Nothing. Thinking Zack was being just creepy, I went back downstairs and into the dining room, where Hannah greeted me with smiles and ushered me into a chair. Ryan came into the room, looking slightly disgruntled, and Zack followed. Trying to catch my husband's attention, I patted the chair next to me. He sat down and looked at me. "Later" he mouthed. Hannah came in with the pot roast and we all proceeded to dig in.



The rest of the evening went well, and Hannah made plans to take me on an excursion next Sunday afternoon. We agreed to meet up at the set of mobile homes her husband owned near the starting point.


Sunday rolled around, and I drove up and parked about half a block from the set of three trailers, waiting for her to arrive. I noticed two smaller trailers that were somewhat worn, and looked uncared-for. The second trailer didn't even have the protection of skirting. The third one was much older, bigger, and more raggedy looking. I decided to look into the windows to see what was inside one, so I picked my way through the weeds to one side of trailer #2. I did a double take, as it had NO windows. I made my way around the front, and to the other side. Still-no windows whatsoever. I felt a slight tingle of apprehension, which I could not explain. I jogged back to my Jeep, and retrieved a crowbar out of the toolbox in the front seat. I grabbed the mini flashlight that was in the glove box, and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans. Thank goodness Ryan left the tools there when he was working on his car yesterday.



Since the trailer had no stairs to get to the door, I walked up and used the crowbar to pry the door open from the bottom. Something brushed my ankles, making me have to nearly choke to keep a scream from releasing. I looked down and saw a gray tabby cat rubbing against my feet, looking up at me with a pitiful expression. Its bony ribs and big eyes told me it hadn't eaten in some time, and wanted something to nibble on. I felt bad, so I lifted myself up through the doorway, in hopes of finding a refrigerator or cupboard with something edible in it. I pulled the flashlight out and played it over the walls and floor, surveying my surroundings, wrinkling my nose at the unpleasant odor. Taking note of the lack of furniture, except a dingy gray loveseat, and some art supplies left on the floor and canvases propped against the wall, I started to walk toward the small kitchen area. I hear the rumble of Hannah's husband's pickup truck coming up the road, so I turned back, nearly tripping over the tabby cat in the process. I scooped him/her up and headed towards the door. I tripped again, and got my arm and breast shredded by Tabby-boy trying to escape before he was dropped. I managed to catch myself before I hit the floor, and the most horrible smell ripped through my nostrils--dead and decayed stench of something unseen previously. I looked at what I nearly landed on --a pile of bones with flesh still attached-- underneath a clear tarp.



Retching and gagging, and swaying a bit from shock, I ran back to the door, snatching up Tabby again on my way past, and leapt to the ground below. I shut the door as best I could without making much noise, and heard Zack's pickup pull into a driveway toward the front of the property. I could see the wheels crunching to a stop on the gravel when I looked under the trailer. I ran to the safety of the nearby woods, taking the cat with me and quietly shushing his meows of protest. He/she seemed to realize the possible danger, and stopped. I hid behind some bushes and a tree, and saw a young pair of legs jump out of the passenger side of the truck, and an older pair that I recognized as Hannah's follow suit. To my dismay, I noticed a third, much larger pair of legs and feet step out of the driver's side of the truck.



The sinking feeling becoming almost unbearable, I watched with dread as Hannah and a little girl (that thankfully was not my niece) walked toward the back of the truck where Zack was, pulling a stepladder out of the truck bed and setting on the ground. So THAT was how they got into the trailers...



I peeked through the bushes and observed the trio making their way to the front door (thankfully not the same one where I was just moments before), and I could hear Zack asking Hannah, "Is she answering?" My hand flew to the cell phone in my jacket pocket instinctively, and mashed the "Off" button frantically to choke off any incoming calls. I mentally kicked myself for not doing it sooner, and not a split-second later, my phone blinked insistently, announcing "HANNAH-CELL" on the display. I quickly hit the button again, to send it to voicemail. I immediately changed the settings to mute any further calls, and shoved the phone back into my left pocket again.



The little girl, who looked about Amber's age, walked toward the other side of the second trailer, humming a vaguely familiar tune, and dragging a second stepladder that I assumed Zack had taken out while I was attempting to beat my cell phone into submission. Hannah said something to Zack that I could barely make out. I caught "---a message. She should be---" and that was it. Crouching still, gripping the cat under one arm and hurting from the position I was in, I continued to watch. Zack called toward the little girl, "Nicole--come get your sweater." I began to wonder what was going on. What was that pile of dead stuff in that trailer, and why did Hannah bring her husband and what looked like their daughter with her? I was under the impression she and I would go for a hike by ourselves.



Not taking my eyes off the pair, I slowly backed away from the cover of bushes, keeping a low profile. The cat under my right arm began to squirm in discomfort, and I realized I'd been squeezing him in my anxiety. I scurried around the lot until I was sure I wouldn't be spotted, and then ran to my Jeep parked around the corner. I set the cat down in the passenger seat and dug into my jeans for my keys. After a brief moment of panic, I discovered them in the pocket of my jacket. I started up the Jeep; I prayed the couple wouldn't hear the rumble of the engine. I began to drive back the way I'd come and watched to see if I was being followed. My head swam with all of the things I'd seen in the past two hours. What was that pile of rotting carnage? Was it human or animal? I couldn't even wrap my brain around the idea of my friend being a murderer or even some kinky psychomaniac.






After driving around for about twenty minutes, it hit me that I should talk to Ryan about this. I mentally rehearsed what I'd say to him, and thought of several different ways to say it…all coming to the same conclusion that he'd believe I was off my rocker. Well, the phrase "what he doesn't know won't hurt him" did not apply here. I truly believed that we were now in danger.



I called his cell phone, praying he'd hear the ring of the phone. Knowing he probably could not possibly hear the jingle of "Que Sera Sera" over the engines of the planes, I quickly hung up and dialed again. I wondered if he'd remembered to leave it on vibrate from last night.



"Hello? Kristie, is that you, hon?" I heard him answer.



"Ryan! Where are you right now?" I asked, quivering from relief and fear.



"I'm in the break room at the moment, about to go eat lunch. Why? I thought you were going to go hiking with Hannah?"



"Can you meet me at the Retro Café in five minutes? I don't have time to explain over the phone. Just please meet me there!"



"Okay, okay, okay! Kristie, calm down, baby! I'll be there. Let me go tell Manoj I'll be back in an hour." Ryan soothed. "I'll see you at the Café in a few minutes, alright? Love ya, sweetheart."



"I love you, too." The words taking on a deeper meaning than before. The fear and pain of possibly losing my husband filled me with an ache that I couldn't begin to describe. I jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left, cutting off an elderly couple in a Beetle. I mouthed "sorry" to them and pressed the gas, the Jeep responding quickly to my urgency. I sped all the way down Bridgeview Avenue, barely slowing down for cops and pedestrians. I made it to the Retro Café in less than three minutes, giving myself time to breathe and make sure I didn't look as frazzled as I felt. I flipped down the mirror and sighed. I didn't look as wild as I felt—I looked worse. I dragged a brush through my curls and wiped a tiny streak of dirt off my face. Turning to the cat, which I'd mentally named "Tommy", I declared "You keep watch over this Jeep. Holler if you see Hannah." Tommy meowed in response, curling up on the front dash. I left the windows cracked about two inches for air, and then stepped outside, feeling exposed. I locked the SUV and approached the front door of the café. The waitress seated me, and I told her there would be an additional guest. She nodded, announced her name as Trixie, and hurried away to fetch a pair of drinking glasses and a pitcher of water.



Ryan walked in the door, looking concerned. I briefly envied him his ignorance, hating myself for the potential outburst. I stood up and greeted him with a kiss, and nodded towards Trixie. "I'll explain in a minute." He understood immediately.



"I'll have a grilled cheese on wheat, with a bowl of chili." He responded, when she inquired about our orders. She jotted it down on her pad, and then looked at me.



"Chicken sandwich, hold the tomato. And a cup of coffee, please." I figured I'd need about sixty gallons of coffee to warm me up after the earlier events. Trixie took the order and poured the glasses of water. After watching her retreat to the kitchen to rattle off the order, I turned to my husband. "I just want to say, in advance, that I'm sorry for sounding like a lunatic. What I'm about to tell you isn't something you're likely to believe, and in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you had me committed." I took a deep breath, and Ryan watched me with a steady gaze, holding my icy hand in his warm ones.



"Kristie, not likely you'd say anything I wouldn't believe. You're not prone to fits of hysteria—just mild dramatics on a few occasions," he smiled, taking the sting from the words. "That's why I was so worried after getting your call. You sounded like hell's demons were nipping at your heels, and that's not like you. I told Manoj there was a family crisis, so he told me to give you his regards and let me take the rest of the afternoon off. Now spill it, Kris."

Tell me it's horrible..

mockery of human kindness
pointless irridation of black wells
for something we've lost
we're buried deep within our minds
given the grasp of who we are then denied exploration.

sittting in a field
the flowers, the grass, the colours
it's beautiful, it's a hopeless cause
they know, see
but can they comprehend.
do they remember how to run, to jump

why dont they open their mouths
free their tounges from circular words
and sing a note that means nothing
but it means everything
the desert we live in sits still in growth

mother always told us
we are what we eat
but did we know
that we were to become
as greedy as the cow
chewing on it's cud
as docile as the sheep
bleating answers gently
to our every command

it is the fault of many
habitat has become
our double edged political sword
we are misleaded and overindulged
suppressed and denied what we need most

where is our independence
our grasp of revolution
the youth are led blindly to the calvary
moral guildlines are blurred and forgotten
in the chase for riches, art, or freedom
it's all the same

everything is ridiculous

Nice Poem Lustyforlife!

---The Holy Land---

You promise land of Moses
You birth place of Jesus
You Ascension of Mohammed

You Cradle of Jews
You Jewel of Christendom
You Holy Land of Muslims

My tears fall for every child that is killed in your name
My soul screams in agony for every shrine that is destroyed
My heart breaks for the constant killing of brother against brother

Why must we destroy something so important to each of us?
Why must we insist that the other has no right or claim to this land?
Why must we let our rage blind us to what we are doing to each other?

When will this senseless killing end?
When will our people live in peace?
When will this land unity as one?

Why must grandparents bury there children!
Why must grandparents bury there grandchildren!
Why must we all bury our dreams with our loved ones!

Tell me why must my life be in vain?

I certainly hope this isn't too long- it's just a little oneshot about eating disorders I wrote back when there was such controversy over the skinny model issue. I remember watching a news feature about it and thinking how history seems to never mention eating disorders, which caused me to wonder if they were an issue back in medieval times. This is the result of that thought train . Hope it's not too long.

He knew it was wrong.

He knew it was irrational, unjustified, self-harming, dangerous, unhealthy, illogical, unreasonable… but he couldn’t stop himself. Every time he tried to kick the horrible habit he couldn’t help but cling to, utter jealousy would thunder through his veins and fuel his course of action once again. It was an everyday occurrence, a necessity, a requirement, a ritual, an addiction.

And, oh, what a powerful addiction it was. So powerful that he frantically endeavored to hide it like a man crazed, desperately trying to delude himself into thinking that his family and friends couldn’t see him failing before their very eyes. And the more he tried to fool himself, the more potent and realistic the gut-wrenching truth became.

They knew.

He had panicked, retreating to that all-too familiar addiction that seemed to torment and pleasure him all at once. His agony and confusion had been relieved as he knelt over the usual commode, pouring out all of his heartbreak and insecurity in the typical manner. And when he had finished, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and quickly disposing of the remnants of his addiction to maintain a suitable public figure, he had somehow felt relieved. Somehow, he had felt cleansed. Somehow, he had felt redeemed.

But there was no redemption. He hated watching himself, knowing that he grew more and more skeletal each day, growing more and more like a wraith and dying just a little more inside. He hated watching the concerned faces of his family and friends crumple when he retreated to his chamber after a meal, hated watching their spirits sink and their hope diminish just a little more.

He constantly asked himself why he continued existing in such a pitiable manner, why he couldn’t abandon his selfish ruse. He could never answer his own questions, too tormented to delve deep into himself, too afraid of what monstrosities he might find.

But he knew the answer. He was jealous, utterly and incurably jealous. Jealous of the perfect bodies that surrounded him, jealous of their ability to gorge themselves and remain impossibly slender. Jealous and maybe a little, no, a lot insecure.

And yet he couldn’t stop himself. The ritual, the addiction, the damned addiction became a necessity, a way of life that become so ordinary that it seemed like it had always been a part of him. And he hated himself for it, hated knowing the heartwrenching concern and miserable curiosity he caused those around him.

And still, he couldn’t stop.

His cynical, sardonic side found the situation almost comical. The dark side of beauty, he laughed bitterly to himself. If only everyone could see what he had been reduced to, if only everyone knew of his misery. He was certain that their eyes would take on the pitiable, slightly concerned glance he had been the subject of so many times before. “How sad,” they would say, voice becoming a bit downcast at the end of the phrase for an added effect of false sympathy. And then they would smile and continue conversing, no longer caring about the one who had died to be just like them, another mindless drone too concerned with his own image to care about precious individuality.

And so he sat, listening to the pounding of the rain on his sturdy roof, dejected and reflecting bitterly on his miserable existence. He bent to retrieve the familiar commode from its easily accessible place beneath his bed, the typical feeling of self-loathing and helpless addiction surging through his veins as he settled the commode on his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered tearfully to himself, apologizing for the horrible habit that he was too dependent upon to break away from. “I’m sorry.”

Just as he raised his index finger to shove down his throat, his humiliating but sweet release was interrupted when the wooden door to his chambers burst open. He glanced up, infuriated at being intruded on but terrified and panicked at the prospect of being caught in the act. He frantically scrambled to replace the commode beneath his bed, hoping desperately that his visitor had not yet entered the room and he was still safely undiscovered, but it was not so.

He glanced up fearfully to meet his father’s gaze, a halo of silky hair surrounding the regal, handsome features contorted with shock, concern, and a bit of something else that he hesitated to identify.

Disappointment.

Shame flooded over him like water crashing onto a beach, a tidal wave of disgrace, humiliation, self-loathing, despair, horror, and the same feeling of disappointment. Disappointment in his weakness, in his humanity.

Disappointment in himself.

“I’m sorry!” he repeated again in utmost desperation, longing for his father’s soothing embrace but too ashamed of what he had become to reach out. “I’m sorry!”

And so his father stood paralyzed in the doorframe, well aware of his son’s burning desire for comfort but currently unable to give it. He gazed at his child in astonishment, truly seeing for the first time in months. He had seen, yes- he had known of his son’s illness, but had ignored it to keep his precarious sanity in check. He had ignored his child’s needs for the sake of the kingdom, for the sake of himself. He hadn’t wanted to admit that his son, normally so resolute and strong, had a problem. He hadn’t wanted to admit that there was a flaw, a flaw that he’d never wanted to see. And, now that he was seeing what his child had become, the disturbing visual seemed to cripple him.

There on the bed sat his son, his only child, fathomless cerulean eyes brimming with disappointed tears as he trembled in anticipation of his father’s reaction. There sat his son, a husk of his former self, reduced to a heap of bird-like, protruding bones and papery skin. There sat his son, a model of everything he had never wanted to be simply because of his father’s inability to act.

His father sighed.

His child wasn’t the only one disappointed in himself tonight.

Reading through all these poems and pieces, everyone is such a great writer. Black Barook, I really like your poem. Very thought-provoking.

Really!? Thanks!

I just want to hug the guy you wrote about....though I'm a little afraid that I might crush him...>>;

Stop bombing each other!
Stop killing one another!
Why are you doing this dear bother!

Why must you bring down our domes?
Terrorizing us and driving us from our homes?
Causing us, in our suffering, to moan?

Please end this senseless killing
It’s terrifying and chilling
And truly so sickening

Haven’t you done enough to this land?
You have soaked with our blood the sand
Please, let us leave this darkness and join our hands!

Forget our dark past
Let the wind blow at our mast
And lead us to a brighter future at last

Yeah, you might shatter him... it's a great thought, though . I'm sure, were he not fictional, that he would appreciate it. He doesn't even have a name, oddly enough :P. When I wrote the story, I just kept picturing him as bulimic guy, LOL. Keep writing- I love your poetry !

XP I'm just going to read and comment. Frankly, I have no creative talent whatsoever. Also, I may sound like a retard.

RabidAngel77- That's a very realistic story. I practically cried, but I'm just an emotional person. And did you base it off anyone?

Black_Barook!- I love the non-existent lack of exclamation marks and question marks in your last two poems. I like to see them because it makes me happy. (!)

You were planted
Like a seed in the ground
And we waited
For you to abound

For years you have slept
Until City retaken
You were awakened
And, with speed, you leapt

You flourished with power
And grew so great
You were truly a flower
It seemed, decided by Fate

Your nectar was life to all those who drank
They came to you for knowledge
And they grew in rank

You were the Jewel of Civilization
It so clearly stated in the Book of Destination

Ah…but it was not meant to last
In mere moments your Golden Days
Will be of past
And left in a memory of haze

They attacked and destroyed
Your leafs and petals
Nothing was left, all was avoid
Their weapons were metal

Your leaves have shriveled
Your petals long gone
Your cities were leveled
Truly this act was wrong

Your stem was infested
By enemies investments

And now they say
There was never a flower
And we say nay!
But truly it is our darkest hour

*peeks in* Wow everyone is so awsome and talented! I just do simple stuff like Haiku's and Diamonte poems I wrote a song for my 7 year old cousin called "Stinging Tears" he passed away June 2nd of this year.


I know you're not here phisically,
I know you were in pain very tragically,
It's ok to cry every once in a while,
But when you're gone it's hard to deal with this myself,
I know you have your Mom,Dad and sister and they grieve too,
And now these days when your smiling face is not around,
I fall flat on the ground,
Where are you? How are you? Can you hear me down here?

I am crying stinging tears,
Tears that just won't wipe off your face,
Those kind where they stay all the time and never go away,
Please hold me and say you're okay,

I can't imagine what type of pain it was,
I can't say I've been through it even though I've had problems myself,
But not as nearly what you've been through little Josh,
I can't belive you were only seven and you lived like a soldier,
And still echos of your laughs are still around,
That make my heart sink deep down,
Are you okay? You're not in any pain? But will you shead tears?

I am crying stinging tears,
Tears that just won't wipe off your face,
Those kind where they stay all the time and never go away,
Please hold me and say you're okay,

These tears are for you even though you don't want me to cry,
You may feel sad because you can't comfort your family or atleast try,
How can it be that you're gone?
How can anyone see?
How can this place be the same?
Without you..............
Here you are in a free open home laughing and running forever,
But when people say there is no such thing as a forever when,
Then how is love not forever?
I know you can answer that question because all of our love is towards you,
Stinign tears....Stinging tears......Can you be the one to wipe them off?


I wrote that song the day he passed away. I miss him so much.

Wow everyone here is really talented. This is a poem I wrote while I was procrastinating on studying. I hope you enjoy it.

The Essay
I have an immense, gigantic essay
It is due soon, just the day after next
Can I finish it in time? No, there’s no way!
I can’t make up so very much text

The assignment is in an ultra dumb course
About this and those and these and that
The topic is of all things, a huge horse
That looks a lot like a great big rat

Oh forget this stupid essay, I don’t need it
No, I will do it later tonight
After I practice having biting wit
There’s no time, I’ll do it at first light

AAA! it’s too early, I’ll work after school
That will be when I do my stuff
Oh! Smallville is on! Fate is just too cruel
I’ll work ‘til the class of the earmuff

Hark! My essay is done! I am so pleased
I turn in my paper with a laugh
Procrastination works! Won’t mum be cheesed
That I managed to not commit a gaff

A week later interim reports come home
I remove the colorful grade sheet
I see the page and let out a small moan
MY SOARING A IS NOW A BIG FAT F!

my first warning: Sympth.

Blacken eyes and morbid skin,
You’d think that she was born to kill
But memories still haunt her nights
Her tears of once happiness fall
But only inside.

Oh what she would to have your fate
To be able to die, not come to life again
But for the war she must stay awake,
And fall to torture once more

She’s a fallen angel, to the depths of hell
Through lives tales of misery only she can tell
She lost her loved ones long ago
Nothing to stop her, but her own

Cheated and betrayed but nowhere to turn
Suicide is useless, for she’ll return.
Who is she what of her name?
Only she knows, no one’s left to blame

So who is writing her forbidden tale?
I am she for I speak her name.



The Hungarian Gypsy.

I am a soldier, I live for war.
But between two loves I am torn.
One the freedom of the sea,
The other my redheaded angel for whom I breathe.

He calls for me to stay,
while my hearts in another place.
My destiny in his tired face,
for he has loved while I wake.
Why should I live, should I stay?

I promised my heart to him,
But I am a bride of selfish sin
For the sea my first promised love.
I don’t deserve him, he’s been hurt enough

If I stay I fear one day,
My free heart will wake again
And my first promise will call for me
My dreaded husband of the sea

Not my choice, but guilty though.
I was born into this home
Romani ancestors break your spell
I am a mixed blood, leave me well.

My hated magic, my dreaded past.
My gypsy blood is left to last.
But only a promise can be fulfilled by me
I choose you my angel, Goodbye Sea.

the last blood curse
this one make me look like i have a sick mind,
i'm hungarian give me a break.

You betrayed me oh mirror mirror
Should I laugh or just kill you
I’ve kidded myself way to long
That I’m am like you weak not strong

He thought I loved him, oh how pathetic
Stupid mortal where’d it get him
He thought I was like you,
You believed I’d be true

Now you he is like the others
Dead, not speaking, not my bother
But if you read between my lies
You’d see the truth of my sacrifice

The only one, the last in line
Now immortal comes to bind
The blood of loves my sacrifice
I warn you lover of my dark side

They say there madness with my blood
But vampires brother my one comfort
I’ve killed the rest, addict to my mistakes
But would you kill me with this stake?

Though this instinct of survivals strong
Could I really be in love? I’m way too strong
Could you adjust to my ways?
And become immortal, with me always

Eternal loves just one blood drenched bite away.