letmechoosemyownway

I left her dead by the sea shore. I left her where the waves were sure to pull her out to sea. This is what she asked of me, you see. She told me, days before, that she wanted to be buried in the ocean’s gentle, but masterful grasp. She told me she wanted to always smell of the balmy salt water that always crashed on the shore. She told me that she wanted to visit the Titanic, and the bottom of the deepest trench. She told me that it had been her dream to see what it was like under all that water. I told her that it wasn’t normal to be buried out at sea. I told her I would miss how she always smelled of lavender after the

We've been over this before. I swear to whatever power is out there, any disappearance kills me inside. It's that pang of a broken promise. It's that ache of hours spent waiting for one's return. It's those racing thoughts whispering endlessly that you won't come back. I don't want them to be right. I want them to be anything but right. I don't care what the excuse is, what the reason is. I don't care if it was something small, or something huge. I just want you back. Your absence is making my mind whirl, love. It's making my stomach hurt. It's spurring so many headaches. No amount of chocolate or distraction keeps you from my mi

The deed is done, the contract's been signed. The blood is binding, the truth unhinging. Pain rages through this heart at the terrible act he's committed. The agony, the suffering, the life that's nowhere to be found. The identity stolen, the wounds that bleed a blackened blood... The friendships cost, the contacts lost, the heart that cries endless tears in its cruel, undeserved, selfishly given version of hell.

Words spoken to listening ears, pentameters stirred deliciously by eager fingers, Shakespeare as himself portrays and represents person blind, person deaf, person unfeeling; pens in lives strong with life give to ~write~ to give life with strong lives in pens; unfeeling person, deaf person, blind person   represents and portrays himself as Shakespeare, fingers eager by deliciously stirred pentameters, ears listening to spoken words.

Not a pencil nor a crayon. I give you a pen. It is a utensil that helps your heart spill its feelings. It promises honesty and secrecy like the careful notebook you stash under your mattress. Here. It will blind you with poetic pentameters like a Shakespeare of your own, living and breathing within you. It will make your reflection a picture your otherwise bruised pride will be proud of, despite the scars. I am trying to be helpful; Not a judge nor a counselor. I give you this pen. Its fierce might will leave you speechless yet your pages full of voice 'til the day it dies; possessive and faithful as we are, for as long as

I was young once, fragile, wondering about everything. I was imaginative once, creative, seeing worlds alongside reality. I was carefree once, unafraid of others, unabashed by what they had to say. I was happy-go-lucky once, smiling constantly, untainted by what plagues me now. I was clueless once, unaware of the world; one could say I should've payed more attention. I was free once, uncaged, able to fly as I pleased. Now... I've changed. I've become older, wiser, watching others as they watch me, making sure I don't screw up in their presence. I've been shattered, broken, having to be pieced back together in the end

You're you. I'm me. I'm different from you, but then again, who isn't? Rarely do you and I see someone as utterly repulsed by loneliness as me. Hardly ever do you see my workaholic side, but when you do, all you'll be staring at is a closed door, and an obsession for A Perfect Circle and Tool coming to light (and maybe listening ears). I'm envious of athletes for their figures, and no matter how many miles I run in cross country, I come nowhere closer to the daydream I see. I'm a roleplaying fiend; taking on a character's role is second nature for me. I'm the internet nut; I've seen things online that you've never dreame

The mind festers as ideas spark- the hand flies and my blood boils- Please, Ra... Let this be an idea that lives. I beg for its life, the soft tendrils of a new world wrapping their fingers around my heart, soul, and mind- tugging at my heartstrings as the attention is diverted. I take its face gently in my hands, and stare deep into the eyes, the vibrant jade jewels that stare fearfully back into mine, and say- "You choose your own fate, I'm merely the linguist and the journalist. I'm the one that documents your story... I'm merely the one that listens and writes. It's up to you to tell me the events in all their detail-

My blood is my ink. It keeps me from leaving my flesh untouched by the things that fall upon the paper I claim daily. My scars are my poems. They have a story to tell, and a life lesson to grace the listening mind. Maybe you'll learn something from one of my many, many mistakes. My wounds are my notes. They tell you of the ideas that are about to flourish. They tell you where I'm about to go, and where I've been within the past day. New ones appear on my arms in a matter of seconds sometimes... My attitude is my massive list of ideas. It tells you when I'm in the writing mood, and when I just want everyone to leave me t

Waltz of the Necromancer By: Krisztina Balla Black hair splashes Into his view. White sleeves turn Dark crimson. Stained with the blood Of a lover. Red is the only color He sees now. She is gone from this world, From him. Her heart still beats, Slower and slower. He feels it through his hand Hating the vital organ. Love is dead, Dead to him. A broken heart, a mere Shadow of who he was. If only he could bring her Back to him. But he can't for the sake of Her beautiful body. Bathed in blood, skin Pasty and pale. His love died with her, Forever wandering alone. This is the dance of the Cursed loner. This is the walt