| ATTENTION: SHAWN (a.k.a. "SATAN") |
[Jan. 22nd, 2007|10:47 pm] |
SHAWN,
IF YOU'RE STILL A MEMBER OF THIS SITE, PLEASE CONTACT ME, AS SOON AS YOU CAN. I REALLY NEED TO TALK TO YOU. |
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| Dream a Little Dream |
[Feb. 18th, 2006|03:19 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  hopeful | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Enya - "The Celts" | ] |
Ages past, standing in the window of my only protection, knowing what is to come, predicted fires upon the Gates, Our Kingdom crumbling from malicious and selfish betrayal, myself a sacrifice volunteered, having given mine Heart and Soul to another, if it is to be, it is to be... Within mine ears are the songs of the Ancient Ones, soothing every fear, removing my mind from contaminating fury, and not once do I regret the stance I have taken, though my Heart bleeds with pity, and my Soul weeps with sorrow for the acts of others, even as they tear down the walls of Our Kingdom, if it is to be, it is to be... Carnage and suffering around me, yet still my post is kept, my end has been foreseen, as my eyes are never removed from my Heart and Soul engaged in battle, tears falling from my eyes, yet no lament for myself, but for my Love and the Light of Life within me, the Light that will have been born in a mere seven months' time, yet I have chosen my post, and I will not abandon it, if it is to be, it is to be... Deafened are the ears to footsteps approaching, my time is here, I do not want to leave, but know that I must, or all will be lost, closed become my eyes, all remaining within then sent to the Keeper of my Heart and Soul, the Ancient Ones' words assuring me that all will be well in the end, the words of the Gods of Old giving me strength to face my foe and do what I must, if it is to be, it is to be... Death swings wide the door to my sacrificial tomb, my countenance relieving me of sorrow, my figure one of defiance, turning to they whom will destroy Love and Life for their selfish pleasure, fearing not their spears, nor their swords and staffs, nor their magick, as my blood spilled at their hands will only ensure the prophecies, and if it is to be, then it is to be... Surprise is not mine as I look into familiar eyes, through the window of my tomb lay my Heart and Soul, a moment's thought of my Love on the battlefield, of the Innocence within my womb, sliced with his blade as is my source of Life, yet naught is felt, as my knees place themselves upon the stone floor, my eyes closing as a silent whisper escapes my lips, the Gods of Old assuring me that this end is only the beginning, as it is to be, then it is to be... Awakened for a last goodbye, my Love, my Heart, my Soul united for the last in this time, the darkened tomb lit only by the Light of Our Love, his sorrow runs rivers down his cheeks, my hands too heavy to catch them, my breath too shallow to dry them, he is my one regret to my choice, his sorrow overwhelming, for naught can cause regain of this Life, but if it is to be, then it is to be... Awakened anew, the promise of the Gods of Old, the wisdom of the Ancient Ones within me, born without whole of Heart, without completion of Soul, for they are still in the Keeper's care, the embers of that age igniting internal Fires, knowledge of that end's beginning, this beginning's end, it was to be, and so it will be... Soul's seasonal summoning, remembrances of what was, of what is to be, my Love's voice consoling me, as he has never forgotten the promise made to me, calling me home, within his eternal embrace, guiding me slowly, as my eyes were still blinded, and it was to be, and so it will be... At last within his embrace, at last my eyes gaze upon him anew, such sorrow to be healed, such joy to be celebrated, my Heart and Soul within his grasp, now reunited, now complete, another battle close at hand, history's repetition, a sacrifice yet again to be made, but Love will not let Death claim him long, victory lay within my hands, within my wholeness of Heart, within my completion of Soul, Life shall begin anew within the same age, as is the demand of the Gods of Old, as is the wisdom of the Ancient Ones, and as it is to be so, it will be so... it will be so... |
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| Skipping School |
[Jan. 8th, 2006|09:54 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  amused | ] |
Throughout my life, I have heard many a tale from others near my age of skipping school. “Playing hooky”, as it is occasionally called, is apparently something that every child, of every school age, does at one time or another. After all, children want a day off to themselves, when they can watch the shows on television that they usually miss, while trying to learn their lessons; some children (typically those at or near adolescence) even decide to leave their houses and journey into the city in which they live.
From the tales I’ve heard, it seems as though it is but a simple process. The child awakens in the morning and decides that he or she does not want to go to school; perhaps a dreaded exam is being given, or maybe the child merely wishes to sleep for a longer amount of time. When the parent or guardian finally notices that the child is not preparing for the day, the parent inquires of the child as to the reason for his or her slow-footedness. The child then states that he or she does not feel well; “I have a stomachache”, “My head hurts really badly”, “I feel really sick”, all the while making plans as to how the unburdened day will be spent.
Some parents give in immediately to the child’s wishes to remain at home; others perform tests, such as the taking of one’s temperature, before deciding as to whether the child should be allowed to stay home. Over the years, children have come to expect the latter and have, in response, prepared for it. I’ve been told that there are many ways to fake a fever. Putting a penny underneath one’s tongue is said to make the mercury rise, as the body heat absorbs into the conductive coin, making it very hot. Another form is to complain of a stomachache and to ask for a heating pad to place on one’s belly, in order for the soothing heat to settle the organ; while the parent or guardian is out of the room, the child places the thermometer on the heating pad, just until the temperature rises to an acceptable fever-level. Still another method – the most common, I believe – is to place the thermometer on a lit bulb, while the child is alone. There are many strategies, and children tend to pull the wool most of the time.
I pulled the wool once; actually, I should say that I yanked the entire sheep, hooves and all. I had never before skipped school, which, at my age at that moment, was nearly impossible to imagine. Most kids my age were professional skippers.
I was approximately fourteen or fifteen and had an algebra test the next day, as well as turning in three lessons worth of homework. Some of the people reading this may grunt, So? What’s so bad about that? I’ll tell you what was bad about that: I was. I may have a definitely above average intelligence quotient, but requesting me to get the correct answer on an algebra problem was like taking a fish out of a pond, throwing it into the air and requesting it to sprout wings and fly; it wasn’t going to happen. I had even tried getting a tutor, but that proved to be the same as merely gluing wings on the poor, flopping fish and launching it skyward, once again. The only reason I passed Algebra 1, Algebra 2, Pre-Calculus and Pre-Trigonometry was because my math teacher (who also happened to be the principal and made out the students’ class schedules) knew that I was trying my hardest but still just barely understood anything past the ninth chapter of my first semester of Algebra.
Don’t be mislead: I’m excellent in other forms of math. For instance, geometry was a breeze. And accounting was child’s play; anyone with basic organizational skills can do it. And, although anyone who has checked my credit report will insist that I’m fibbing, I can balance a checkbook; I just don’t do it often (if at all), which is one of the reasons credit card and loan companies avoid me like the plague. But, really, I am very good at those subjects. Give me a page full of nothing but numbers and set equations, and I’m lost. Give me a page with only words, and I can have it memorized verbatim within twenty-four hours. Give me a page with numbers and words (such as two trains leaving from different areas, traveling at different speeds and wanting to know when they will catch up with each other), and I’d rather pluck every hair – individually – from my entire body, head to toes.
That’s what was so bad about the test and the homework and, consequently, why I didn’t want to go to class the next day. So I decided to do what I had heard so many other kids had done: I decided to play hooky. However, as I was extremely inexperienced and did not want to ask anyone who was more adept than myself (for fear of my false illness being exposed), my plan backfired in a most unexpected way.
My first mistake was that I didn’t wait for the morning to declare my sickness. Yes, that’s right. The night before the test, after seeing the black luggage under my eyes, which I attained from hours of staying up late and trying to figure out how to do the problems given to me, I insisted that I did not feel well.
I can already hear some of you, who have skipped school before and know how to do it right. I can almost see your eyes rolling in your head as you say with a smirk on your face, you ridiculous little twit; don’t you know that you’re supposed to be sick in the morning? That, by the time the morning comes, whatever fever you have falsely acquired could have disappeared, and your plans would be quashed? Well, the answer to that is ‘no’; as I said, I was inexperienced. I was a virgin in the hooky-playing world, and my deflowering was disastrous. And, if you think my first mistake was a foolish one, keep reading; it gets better – or worse, depending on how you look at it.
I was taken, by one of the staff members of the school, into the bathroom – on the chance that, if I had anything, I could be contagious. As I slumped onto the metal-framed vinyl chair, I tried to appear as pathetically ill as I possibly could, as if I found every movement to be completely physically exhausting. I clutched the left side of my stomach, moaning and whimpering. That was mistake number two: the intensity of my faked illness. Now, I had to play as though I were really sick.
The staff member rushed out of the room to fetch a thermometer, her eyes wide and watching as she left the room. The second she had disappeared from my view, I began frantically searching for a means to make it appear as though I had a fever. I had no access to a penny; all of my money was in the drawer of my desk, and I was sure that the staff would be back before I could reach the coin and replace myself upon the chair. There were no lamps by which I could make the mercury rise; there were only the overhead lights, which were too far above for me to reach, even if I were to stand on my tiptoes on the chair. The heating pad was out of the question, as the only person allowed to have one was the nun that was in charge of the cottage.
Just as I was beginning to think that I would not be able to falsify a fever that night, and that I might as well face the music (Bach's "Tocatta & Fugue" in D minor) in class the next day, I discovered that one of the sinks had somewhat of a slow leak. I saw the thin stream of water flowing from the faucet into the basin, and I was stuck with, what seemed at the time, a brilliant idea. Placing my index finger under the stream, I found that the water was hot. Perfect, I thought, I’ll just put the thermometer under the water for a few seconds; that should do it.
Hearing the footsteps of the thermometer-bearing staff member coming down the hall and towards the bathroom, I took it up a notch. I closed my eyes and curled my body into a fetal position, resting my head upon the dressing table, which stood barren beside me. She walked into the room, and I remained still, as though I was passed out from exhaustion. Softly, she called my name. I wearily opened my eyes and tried to stare at her in a daze, so that she could see that I really was sick. She put the thermometer in my mouth and whispered, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you, and she again left me to my “misery”.
Immediately, I seized my opportunity. Snatching the gauge from under my tongue, I thrust it under the burning stream. Unbeknownst at the time, that was mistake number three. My mind gleefully danced with the idea of staying in bed the next day and finishing my homework when I was alone.
Now, I don’t know if any of you have tried this method of obtaining a fever. Perhaps some of you have and had glorious results from it. Perhaps there are some who have had as horrible an experience as I had; I don’t know. But I did learn a couple of things from this solitary journey into hooky playing. The first lesson is that, when one is supposed to have the thermometer under her tongue for three minutes and, instead, has it under or on a source of heat, it is a very good idea to have a watch or a clock nearby; it can be very difficult to determine how much time one has left before being checked on. The second, and possibly most important, lesson is to never ever place a thermometer under a stream of scalding water, unless you want to fake a fatal disease – which is not funny or productive in any means of the word.
I had lost track of time, reveling in my success, that I soaked the bulb for way too long than I should have. Mistake number four. Unexpectedly, I heard the staff member’s feet making their way to the bathroom, and I yanked the thermometer out of the stream and read it. One hundred and six degrees, it read. Shit, I thought, this isn’t good – it’s too high. Then, thinking on a lighter note (but obviously not a brighter one), I decided that the higher the temperature, the better the chance of being able stay out of school the next day, and I was sure that the temperature would drop, being placed under my non-fevered tongue, before she could get there.
As quick as lightning, I replaced the thermometer in my mouth and, once again, slumped onto the dressing table. I was attempting to appear as though I had fallen asleep shortly after receiving the gauge, in order to cover my devious tracks. She walked into the room and, seeing my state, crossed the room and slipped the thermometer out of my mouth. As before, I opened my eyes and looked at her as though I were a wounded bird, pleading for help, but unable to coherently ask for it. Yes, I thought, now it comes. You poor dear, you really are sick. Of course you don’t have to go to school tomorrow. You just lie in bed and sleep it off. I’ll try to keep the distractions to a minimum. Now, off to bed with you, and I’ll check on you in the morning.
That was a bit along the lines of what I was expecting, just a smidge of misguided sympathy and a lot of solitude, so that I could do my homework in complete peace. However, that wasn’t exactly how it worked out. Oh, yes, she had been fooled. And, yes, she believed that I should be in bed. And I got much more sympathy and solitude than I had expected or wanted, respectively.
She read the thermometer, then reread it. She gasped and whispered, oh, my god, and rushed out of the room. Crap, I thought, the temperature didn’t go down as much as I thought it would. She’s going to send me to the doctor and I’ll be found out and then I’ll really be in trouble. I was right about part of my assumption: my “fever” was still pretty high. However, she did not immediately send me to the doctor.
Shortly, she walked back into the room and announced to me that she had called my parents and that they would be there at any moment to pick me up. My heart leapt with joy, being careful to keep my exterior in the most pathetic appearance as possible. Excellent! Not only will my lie not be discovered, but I also get to go home, as well. This is great; I’ll get all the solitude I could possibly hope for there. I’ll be able to do my homework and study undisturbed.
Trying to remain weak and bewildered, I asked her why I was being sent home, as though all I was aware of was that I didn’t feel well and had a fever. It was then that she told me that my temperature was one hundred and five degrees. She went on to explain that an extremely high fever like that was one of the signs of appendicitis and that my parents were called because she thought I might be in danger of my appendix rupturing.
Although I didn’t show it, I was utterly shocked. I was expecting her to say something along the lines of being afraid that whatever it was that caused the fever was contagious, and that she wanted to protect the other girls in the school. I was not expecting any kind of fear for my life. I also realized that, if my parents were coming to pick me up late at night, instead of being their typical selves of telling the staff to just keep an eye on me, they were also afraid. I honestly did not mean to stir fear into them; I just wanted to be able to have another day to try to figure out my algebra. That was all.
But, I decided, it’s too late now. If I told the staff member that I wasn’t really sick, she and my parents would all be furious with me; especially since my parents had gotten out of bed and were driving about fifteen or twenty miles from their home, in order to rescue their poor, endangered daughter. Also, if I told on myself, I would never be able to finish my homework on time, and I’d be in even more trouble. So, this is it. I may have messed up pretty badly, but now I have to stick with it and ride it out.
Consoling my guilty thoughts was the reminder that I would have some peace and quiet and enough time to complete my work. I rose from the chair, in order to head back to my room so that I could pack some belongings for my at-least-one-overnight stay at my parents’ house. I had to do that while the staff was keeping a watch for my father’s approaching car, so that I could sneak my algebra book into my bag, undetected, and the true reason for my fever would remain a secret.
A firm, yet gentle, hand pushed me back down to the seat, as the staff member asked me where I was going. In the feeblest voice I could, I explained that, if I were going home, I needed to pack. She informed me that I was not to bother with that – she had already gotten the nun to commission one of the other girls to do my packing for me.
In the vain hopes of being, at the very least, let back into my bedroom to inform the girl that I needed my algebra book, I said that I was tired and just wanted to lie down. I was instructed to stay where I was, while the staff made a makeshift bed for me on the laundry room floor next to the door at which my parents were to arrive. She then called another one of the girls to the bathroom to keep watch over me, in case my illness advanced to a more life-threatening stage.
A frantic feeling of panic began to swell within me, starting at my stomach. Never in my life have I wanted to tell on myself so badly as I did that night. I couldn’t tell my overseer to tell the other girl to pack my book; that would leave my sickness in danger of being exposed, as I have previously stated. I couldn’t go to my room; my watcher had been instructed that I was not to leave the room until the staff or the nun came to get me.
I wouldn’t be able to finish my work, after all. I didn’t know the problems by heart, and I had no book. I was sure that my parents, whom I terrified with my inexperienced hooky adventure, would not do their usual custom of leaving me alone to sleep off my illness; I was sure that they would alternate vigils and, perhaps, take off of work the next day to either watch me or take me to the doctor. And, when I got back to school, my con would be discovered, as I had no work to turn in; there was even the possibility that I would have more algebra homework on top of that, which was still unfinished – to be truthful, not even begun.
As I sat there, waiting to be moved to another room, I contemplated my options. I already knew that tattling on myself was out of the question. There was the option of riding it out for as many days as it would take to get the school to send home my books and assignments. But that could be very risky, as it could easily land me in a doctor’s office – a doctor who could quite easily uncover my lie. That would be worse than telling on myself, as an expensive bill would be added to the equation. I had the option of staying in the sick mode for a day or two more and, if my parents were not going to be lurking over my shoulder the entire time, I could be more careful with the thermometer, and give myself a lower fever – something non-threatening; after a couple of days, I was sure to get my homework sent to me. However, I also knew that my mother – the taker of temperatures in the family – was a very light walker, and I would have no way of knowing when she would be approaching my bedroom; I could be caught quite easily by her.
In serious misery – not falsified in the slightest – I sank into the chair, realizing my last option: I would have to make some kind of miraculous recovery and get back to school, as soon as I could, to do my work, and I could consider the night spent at my parents’ house as time to calm down from the stress incurred from the possibility of getting another “D”. I felt utterly defeated, which I was. I had no other choice.
When faced with the staff, I had tried to appear wretchedly ill. Now I actually felt it. My stomach gurgled, churned and cramped. My moans of anguish had become real; I felt as though I were going to vomit. It was such a consuming pain that I doubted if I would have any internal organs left, were I to actually throw up.
Apparently, I looked as miserable as I now felt because the girl who had been commissioned to keep vigil over me quickly called for the staff member to rush to the bathroom. When she arrived, I was so overwhelmed that I nearly fell out of the chair. She wrapped her arms around my left arm and told the watcher to do the same to my other arm, so that I could be carried into the laundry room. At this point, I can truly say that I needed the help; I was feeling quite faint.
The second we entered the laundry room, which reeked of detergent, bleach and lye soap, the doorbell rang, signifying that my troubled parents had arrived. The staff released my arm, propping me against the refrigerator, and walked to the door to let my parents into the cottage. I still remember the coolness of the fridge, pressed against my hot and damp flesh; hot from embarrassment, damp from stress-induced perspiration. The watcher stood close, clamped to my arm as though she were my lifejacket and refused to let me drown in my disease.
My parents rushed into the room, my father sweeping me off of my feet and holding me close to him like he did when I was five years old and had come down with chicken pox. As they quickly thanked the staff for keeping an eye on me and notifying them of my condition, the packer entered, my bag in her hand. I wanted to tell her to run back to my room and fetch my algebra book, as a last ditch effort, but I couldn’t – not with all of those people standing around, especially my parents and the staff. My mother took the bag from the girl’s grasp and thanked her, as well.
Horribly embarrassed and terrified, I lay weakly in my father’s arms. He carried me out to the car and, when my mother had opened the back door, gently placed me down on the soft tan cushion. The ride home was silent, except for the sound of the wheels turning, the various types of road pavement flying by, as we raced down the interstate. The silence between my parents enforced the belief that I had horrified them, and deeper grew my guilt.
Perhaps I had fallen asleep for a while. Perhaps I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I had, again, lost track of time. Perhaps there was little, if any, traffic. Perhaps my parents were so worried that my father sped all the way home, my mother, for once, not complaining that he was breaking the law and that he would get in a wreck and kill all of us. All I know is that we reached my parents’ house in what seemed like record time. It may have been longer (it probably was), but it seemed as though the ride that usually took us at least thirty minutes to drive took only five – maybe seven, but definitely less than ten.
Before I knew it, my father had pulled into the double-car garage and turned off the engine. My mother had scurried out of the car with my bag, into the house and up to my room, in order to turn down the bed for her nearly fatally ill little girl. My father opened the back door and lifted me out of the car. Then he did something that he had always before been furious to see someone else do: he closed the door with his hip. (My father has a really weird thing about cars – almost a neurosis, if you ask me.)
I had never noticed that my father walked with such fluidic movements until that night, as I was not even slightly jostled, even as he mounted the stairs. Once in my room, my father laid my on my bed, my mother attentively at his side, and pulled the covers over me. With my eyes closed the entire time, I rolled onto my side and buried my head into the pillow. He brushed my hair out of my face then left the room.
Shortly after he had gone, my mother nudged me on my shoulder and told me to roll onto my back. As I did so, I noticed that she was holding a thermometer out to me, and I reluctantly opened my mouth to take it.
Seeing that the lamp on my bedside table was still on, a glimmer of hope stirred within me. Remembering an option that I had dismissed, I began to think that I might be able to pull this off, after all. All I had to do was to put the thermometer bulb on the light – keeping a close and careful eye on the temperature, this time – the second my mother left the room.
However, the glimmer was soon evolved into a blackened void. As luck would have it, just to coincide with the rest of my previous luck that night, my mother refused to leave. Instead, she stayed in my room, watching me, her arms crossed as she leaned against my white-painted wooden dresser. She remained there until it was time to take the thermometer out of my mouth.
Looking at it, by the dim glow of the lamp, she frowned. She told me that my temperature was now normal, and she wondered how that had happened. I played dumb and said I didn’t know. I closed my eyes, hoping desperately that she would leave, without any further questions. For once, my luck changed. She did leave; on the way out, she mumbled something to herself about the possibility of the thermometer at the school being broken.
As she closed my door, I smiled, thinking of the restful day I had before me. I was sure that my parents wouldn’t want to get up early enough to have me back at school by eight o’clock in the morning. And, since my fever had miraculously broken, they would both be able to go to work, without fear that something would happen to me in their absence. I figured that I would be returned to school after they had gotten home from work the next day. That being the case, I would have one more afternoon to do my algebra. Comforted by this thought, my stress abated enough to allow me to get a deep and restful sleep.
The next morning, I was awoken by my mother. The sun had not even begun to display his glorious rays; the stars had left their nocturnal posts, and the sky was cold and naked.
She took my temperature again, standing beside the bed, as she had done the night before. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the temperature was going to read in the normal range; I felt fine, and I had to struggle to show the contrary. It didn’t bother me that she would know that I was all right because she would have to go to work, and I would have the day off, anyway.
Just to show what one gets for thinking and becoming too comfortable with an idea or situation, as soon as my mother told me that my temperature was normal, she instructed me to get up and get dressed: I was going back to school. The stress came back twice as hard as it had presented itself the previous night. It was time to face the music, and there was no time to prepare my excuse.
She drove me to the school and got me there just in time to do my morning chores. I dragged along and only did a half-assed job, then I went to my bedroom, put on my uniform and grabbed my books. Algebra was my first class, and I wished that I could leap over the fence that contained the school and my misery along with it.
I slugged my way to the classroom, ten pounds of lead dragging at my heels with every step. In class, I sat silently, as usual (since I never knew how to find the correct answer anyway, there was never any reason for me to open my mouth – unless I wanted to look like a complete jackass). When the teacher asked us to pass our homework to the front of the room, I gathered the papers of the girls who sat behind me and handed the stack to the girl in front of me.
As I had expected, shortly after the teacher had received the stacks from all of the rows, she called me to the front of the room. My heart alternated from nearly exploding to being completely deflated, as she led me into the hallway. She asked me why I didn’t turn in my homework.
Thinking that I could possibly get away with one more night to do the work, I told her that I didn’t know, that I must have left it in the cottage. Surely, she wouldn’t have me neglect the rest of my classes for the day, whilst I look for the paper, would she? She would.
I was directed to go back to the cottage, get my homework and bring it to her. Lost – that was exactly how I felt. I knew that I wasn’t going to find my work; I had never done it. What should I tell the staff? I would definitely be found out, if I told her. All I could do was to stick to the story that I left it in the cottage; once in the cottage and after looking around for a while, I could say that I lost it – I didn’t know where it was.
And that’s exactly what happened and what I did. The staff member didn’t buy the story. I don’t know, she said, that’s just not like you to lose your homework. And she kept a suspicious eye on me, throughout the entirety of the useless search.
Reaching, reaching for a way that I could skip out on telling my teacher that I had not done my homework, my mind whizzed about like a starving bee on a mission. I decided that I would stay at the cottage until the next period, claiming to have looked for my work and still could not find it. After that, I could simply state that, in the hustle and bustle of changing classes, as well as the fact that all of my other teachers became highly irate if any of the girls were tardy, I simply forgot to bring it to her; that I had found it tucked in the back of one of my other books.
No sooner than I had decided that this was the route that I was going to take, the telephone rang. It was my algebra teacher; she said that I had looked long enough, and she wanted me to come up to the school immediately, so that I wouldn’t miss out on the rest of her class, as well as being late for my next class.
A disappointed and disapproving expression on her face, the staff member shook her head at me as I left the cottage. Once again, I felt the desire to escape, to flee, to leap over the fence and run as fast as I could. I was pretty much caught once and already felt guilty and a bit of shame from it; I didn’t want to be caught again.
However, my feet kept their slow march up to the school doors. My shoulder strained as I pulled them open; they seemed to have gained one hundred pounds since the time I had left. The air in the hallway no longer seemed cool and crisp; instead, it had become cold and rough. While making my way to the classroom, a thought crossed my mind of the prisoners and disagreeable people being forced, by pirates, to walk the plank; as I thought this, I could almost see the long slab of wood stretching out before me, my teacher wearing an eye patch and a parrot on her shoulder, as she nudged me onward, to my doom, with the edge of her sword.
As I neared the doorway, my teacher stepped out into the hallway. She wanted to talk to me. She didn’t think that I did my homework last night. Oh, but I did, I said. I just can’t find it right now, that’s all; maybe I could bring it to her after school? After all, I might find it during lunchtime.
Unfortunately, I soon found that she wasn’t as gullible as the rest of them. She read my intentions as if it were a banner made out in large blocked print. She told me that I had looked for it long enough and that, if I couldn’t find it earlier, I wasn’t going to find it at all. And, no, I couldn’t have any more time to look for it; I had always turned in my homework on time before (as pathetic as it was), so it seemed to her that if I didn’t have it this time, then I didn’t have it at all. And, because of all of this, I would receive an “F”. I apologized; she accepted, but I was still going to get an “F”.
That was the first and last time she gave me an “F”; it was also the first and last time I ever even thought about skipping school. I was never confronted by anyone at my school; the girls, the staff, the nuns, or the teachers. I also was never confronted by my parents. The entire situation went unspoken, as if it had never happened. But I know that they knew. They all knew. There was no way that they couldn’t. |
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| Just Writing Pointless |
[Dec. 20th, 2005|02:42 am] |
Shadows dance in
front of my eyes,
glue seeps down my lids,
eyes flutter closed
and voices sing and rant
in my head,
computer screen comes
in and out
of focus
tired
is the word
but sleeping not
this is the time
to work and stay up
and be up
and do nothing
the time of no body around
and I have no idea
what I'm saying
I'm old and hungry though |
|
|
| Scene of a Writer's Spiraling Block |
[Dec. 19th, 2005|11:52 pm] |
I sit
Staring at the screen
Knowing what I want
My hands disobeying
My mind emptying
With every movement
Of my muscles
The screen mocking me
Laughing at me
Laughing at my pain
Drawing pleasure
Insurmountable
From the heart that
Spills its
Crimson tears
Upon the tile
From the tongue
Writhing in agony
Ripped from my mouth
Against my will
And cast upon
The floor
To die
The utter anguish
Of my soul
Longing to scream
To you
If only you could
Accept that I care
If only you could
Hear my words
Just once
But you do not
And could I
Tear apart my emotions
Sever them
Limb from limb
Making me care not
For you, I would
My only outlet
Through keys and fingers
But now
I sit
Staring at the screen
Knowing what I want
My hands disobeying
My mind emptying
With every movement
Of my muscles
The screen mocking me
Laughing at me
Laughing at my pain
Drawing pleasure
Insurmountable
From the heart that
Spills its
Crimson tears
Upon the tile
From the tongue
Writhing in agony
Ripped from my mouth
Against my will
And cast upon
The floor
To die
The utter anguish
Of my soul
Longing to scream
To you
If only you could
Accept that I care
If only you could
Hear my words
Just once
But you do not
And could I
Tear apart my emotions
Sever them
Limb from limb
Making me care not
For you, I would
My only outlet
Through keys and fingers
But now
I sit
Staring at the screen
Knowing what I want
My hands disobeying
My mind emptying
With every movement
Of my muscles
The screen mocking me
Laughing at me
Laughing at my pain
Drawing pleasure
Insurmountable
From the heart that
Spills its
Crimson tears
Upon the tile
From the tongue
Writhing in agony
Ripped from my mouth
Against my will
And cast upon
The floor
To die
The utter anguish
Of my soul
Longing to scream
To you
If only you could
Accept that I care
If only you could
Hear my words
Just once
But you do not
And could I
Tear apart my emotions
Sever them
Limb from limb
Making me care not
For you, I would
My only outlet
Through keys and fingers
But now
I sit
Staring at the screen
Knowing what I want
My hands disobeying
My mind emptying
With every movement
Of my muscles
The screen mocking me
Laughing at me
Laughing at my pain |
|
|
| Sanitarium, work in progress |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|01:24 am] |
Through the dank, gloomy corridor she walked, pausing at every door to get a glimpse of the contents that lay beyond them. The walls of the hallway were cold grey, resembling aged cinder blocks turned on their sides, slime oozing between every crack. It was cold, frighteningly frigid, creeping beneath her flesh and making the hairs of her arms and legs stand at attention.
The sound of a dripping faucet pricked up her ears, and her eyes squinted as she tilted her head towards the ceiling, trying to discern from whence the sound originated. Pipes ran directly above her, leading to the room at the end of the narrow path. She stopped her pace, attempting to zone in on the sound, then let her eyes follow where her ears were telling her to go.
There, near the door at the end of the hallway, she found the source. One of the pipes that dangled overhead was, indeed, the culprit. A substance was slowly seeping out of the joints and hurling itself to the cold concrete floor, making its final resting place in a puddle directly below the fracture.
She recognized it immediately as a water pipe; however, as her feet began walking towards the puddle, she discovered that it was not water at all. Or, if it was, the interior of the pipe was incredibly rusted; for, the liquid dripping from it held a deep red hue.
The closer she came to the puddle, the harder her heart began to pound; she knew what the substance was, even if she could not consciously say it aloud. Surely not! It couldn’t be! These pipes go to the rest of the building; there would be no reason for blood to drip out of them.
“Jack, look at this,” she said, pointing to the puddle.
Her clear voice rang through the empty hallway with the hollowness of a gong summoning the dead. It reverberated off the walls, and returned to her, sending a wave of chills up her spine.
Calm down, she told herself, there’s nothing here that could hurt you. Besides, you’ve got Jack with you - forever, your protector...
“What is that?” she asked.
When no reply came - not even Jack’s sarcastic and witty wisecracks - the fear began to swell within her once again. Jack liked to poke fun at her, but he knew better than to scare her more than she could scare herself; it wasn’t like him to not at least confirm that he had heard her words...... |
|
|
| Sanitarium, Part 2 |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|01:16 am] |
Caleb’s bright blue eyes shot open, dazed and petrified. Spasmodically, he looked at his surroundings, assuring himself that the nightmare didn’t follow him into reality. Dresser, mirror, that infernal window and its inability to shield him from the sun’s blinding rays, bedside table, lamp, telephone, bed. Everything appeared to be fine.
Whipping back the covers, he examined his ankles one by one. No shackles. No bruises or indentations from shackles. No marks of any kind. He was fine - physically.
His linens and underwear were soaked, a thick scent of ammonia wafting around him. He’d lost his bladder again, as he did nearly every time he slept, as well as every time he got extremely nervous. At first, his nose wrinkled at the smell of his urine, then a smile slowly spread upon his lips as he tilted his head to the four corners of the room.
“You see that, dad?” Caleb mocked the walls. “I pissed myself, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I can piss myself anytime I want, and you can’t do shit! Now how great are you? You weak,little fucker! You can’t do shit!”
For a few moments longer, Caleb happily sat in his own yellow filth, reveling in his triumph of independence. He was free from punishment, free from painful lessons. He no longer needed to be ashamed of voluntary or involuntary actions; there were no consequences, as there hadn’t been since his sadistic father finally kicked the bucket eighteen years ago.
Caleb had been wanting his father to die most of his life, but he kept his fantasy a secret, much like he kept his father’s profession a secret. Only once did Caleb dare to speak his wishes aloud, for once was enough for him to understand what lay in wait for him, should he ever utter such hateful words again. Carelessly, he let his mind wander to the terrifying memory.
Suddenly, his gaunt frame slammed itself upon the bed, his arms being drawn above his head to the headboard and his feet toward the footboard. Gnashing his teeth in guttural anguish, his head tossed from side to side, his back arching then splashing down on wet sheets, sending droplets of urine splattering against the dulled ivory walls.
His legs parted without his permission, and although his thighs ached from trying to force them shut, they would not obey him. A searing pain shot up his left inner thigh, as his head involuntarily jerked back in acknowledgment of the pain.
“No, no, please, no,” he whispered, noticing that his organ had begun to raise its weary head. An erection would surely be the death of him, and he pleaded with it to stop, to return to its slumber. The defiant penis, having no ears with which to hear, continued to awaken, probing the depths of Caleb’s briefs, searching for a way out.
It was too late; he had seen. He had seen Caleb and his nasty little penis; he had seen Caleb’s pee soaked clothing and sheets. He had heard the words Caleb had yelled at him, he was going to make sure that Caleb would pay.
With a painful rip, Caleb saw his briefs yanked off of his pubic area and thrown upon the floor. Panting, he looked down towards his crotch, his eyes wide with terror. His organ remained completely oblivious to its surroundings, bobbing and weaving to its own drummer.
“No, please, fuck, no,” he whimpered to the invisible creature who had captured his strength, closing his eyes and squeezing them tightly shut.
Caleb gasped, as unseen hands grasped his testicles and pulled the sac so far from his body that it felt as though they would be torn off. He closed his eyes, feeling the noose tighten around his neck, the rusted razor’s edge carving into his testes, jolt after jolt of fiery electricity being pumped into his abdomen.
Convulsions racked his lank frame, as he clenched his jaw shut to keep from screaming. Screaming was useless, and he knew it; only total submission would make it end.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” bellowed the voice of his father, “that I will not accept that behavior?”
Another jolt pumped into him, raising his torso from the mattress. Rivers of saline poured from Caleb’s clenched lids, as he sobbed through pursed lips.
“Do you want to be an idiot? Do you want to be locked up?” his father demanded.
“No,” Caleb whispered, the involuntary shaking of his body making his voice waver.
“Do you see this?” his father demanded, his icy fingers grabbing Caleb’s organ. With a forceful jerk, he continued, “This is bad! This will kill you! Do you understand?”
Wincing and grimacing, Caleb squeaked, “Yes, daddy.”
“Do you want to die?”
“No, daddy.”
“I think you do. I think you want to die!”
“No, daddy, please,” Caleb moaned in agony. “Please, don’t. Let me go. I promise I won’t ever do it again.”
“Liar!” his father screamed. “Just for that, we’re going to make sure you’re never able to do it again!”
Another convulsion seized Caleb’s torso, then released him. His blue eyes opened wide, imploring and terrified. Writhing in panic, his mouth disobediently opened.
“Please, daddy, please,” he wailed to his father. “I’m sorry! Daddy, don’t! I’m sorry! Please, no!”
Deafening, animalistic screams tore from Caleb’s throat, as he felt the rusted razor slashing his organ and the wire-threaded needle entering one side of the head of his penis and exiting the other, his testicles being roughly battered with a large blunt object...
Then all was silent. No more screams. No more pleas for his father’s forgiveness. No more sounds of tearing flesh. The only sound which remained was that of Caleb’s shaky sobs. |
|
|
| Sanitarium, Part 1 |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|01:13 am] |
“I found it.”
“Found what?”
“You know that building I’ve been dreaming about?”
“You mean the one with all those horrible things that have been giving you nightmares?”
“Yeah, I found it. It’s some kind of mental hospital. Now all I have to do is go there and find some way to convince them to let me in.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult. If they didn’t know of your gift, they’d think you’re suffering from visual and audible hallucinations.”
“I don’t want to be admitted, thank you very much. I just need to get into the basement. That’s where everything happened.”
“So why don’t you just call the hospital, explain the situation, and simply ask if they’d mind if you spent some time down there?”
“I already did that.”
“Apparently, they didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.”
“The woman I spoke with, Ms. Addleman, said that the basement was filled with cement and sealed off at the turn of the twentieth century.”
“Well, that could throw a wrench into the equation, all right.”
“It’s not all right. I don’t think she was being honest with me.”
“See? What’d I tell you? You’d be able to be admitted, no problem. Now you’re paranoid delusional.”
“No, you see, she hung up on me, so I called back and asked to speak with the supervisor, and the story that he told me didn’t match with Ms. Addleman’s. He said there never was a basement.”
“That’s odd.”
“One of them has to be lying.”
“Obviously.”
“Or both of them are.”
“What do you mean?”
“The building was erected in the 1830s.”
“Erected,” he repeated, giggling to himself.
“Pervert. Anyway, it was built in the 1830s, and every single building back then had a basement - all of them. From government offices to apartment buildings. Every last one of them.”
“So the director was lying. Maybe he’s had enough wack-jobs like you calling him and asking about the basement, and he just got sick of explaining, so he says there never was one.”
“Yeah, you’re right. But that doesn’t explain Ms. Addleman.”
“That they sealed off the basement around 1900?”
“Exactly. That doesn’t make any sense, either. I mean, when you take into account the rest of what I found out about the place.”
“Which was?”
“In the 1930s, the government began cracking down really hard on loony bins, when it came to their attention that people were being abused and held against their will.”
“Isn’t every wack-o pretty much held against his will?”
“Yeah, true. But some of the people were put there under false pretenses - like a husband who got sick of his wife’s nagging. And others, who had completely lost it, got better, but none of them were ever allowed to leave.”
“That’s weird. Why would a nut-bar not allow them to leave?”
“Because the so-called doctors, who seemed to enjoy torturing them, were afraid that, should these people ever be released, everyone would know the horrors they had to go through - the worst of which was done in the basements.”
“Kind of like an insurance of sorts? Like, if no one ever found out, then the hospital wouldn’t be shut down?”
“Exactly.”
“So what does that have to do with whether or not they sealed the basement? It seems to me like sealing it off would be the best thing, if that’s where most of the patients suffered the worst.”
“Sounds logical, yes. But Ms. Addleman said the basement was filled with cement and sealed.”
“So?”
“According to the asylum’s financial history, there was never a purchase for the amount of concrete they’d need to fill the basement.”
“You hacked into their financial records?”
“I had good cause.”
“That’s illegal, remember?”
“Yeah, but anyway, according to the blueprints of the building...”
“You got their blueprints, too? What the hell? Do you want to be taken to jail?”
“For fifty bucks, you can get a blueprint of any building. Anyway, according to the blueprints, the furnace and pipes for the building are located in the basement.”
“So there’s no way they’d be willing to fill the basement with cement, considering that’s where the heating and plumbing sources are.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
“They wouldn’t be able to operate without heating and plumbing, or the hospital would have been shut down a long time ago.”
“Yep.”
“And, since it’s still in business, it still has plumbing and heating. Any new blueprints showing alterations for the plumbing and heating systems?”
“Nope.”
“So, since it’s still in business, still has plumbing and heating, and there have been no alterations, that must mean that the basement is still open.”
“And why can’t the basement simply be sealed?”
“Because it would be a fire hazard to seal it off. Not to mention, if they had any plumbing problems, the plumber would have to be able to get down there to fix it.”
“Yep. Now, which person was lying to me?”
“It seems that they both were.”
“Ding, ding, ding! Tell him what he’s won!”
“But why would they both lie to you?”
“Could be one of a few things. Either they don’t know the truth; however, I find that hard to believe because, surely, there had to be some kind of heating or plumbing problem in the past seventy-five years. Or there’s something down there that they don’t want to see - or want anyone else to see.”
“Yeah? Like what? Files? Vagrants?”
“How about some of the old so-called therapy devices that were down there, when such practices were outlawed?”
“Ooh, good one.”
“But I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on some of the old files, though.”
“I know you wouldn’t. And, someday, this curiosity is going to get you into way more trouble than you’ve ever been able to get out of by batting your eyelashes and flashing a smile and some cleavage.”
“As long as I have my looks and a big, strong man to protect me, I’ll never have to worry about that, will I?”
“So, you’re still planning on finding out what the deal is with the basement?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is it, and what ideas have you come up with so far? ‘Cause I know you have something going on in that brain of yours, I can see it in your eyes.”
“It’s in a small town down south, and I’m not sure, other than going down there, what the next move is. I figure I’ll just go there and ask around. There must be someone who knows the truth about it.”
“You mean to tell me that you’re just going to walk up to random strangers and ask them about a lunatic asylum?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“From what I’ve heard, southerners are very leery about strangers, anyway. So a stranger approaching them and asking about a crazy house might make them think that you’ve escaped and call the cops to throw you back in there.”
“I never thought of that. But, surely, there must be someone there willing to talk to me, without automatically thinking I’m crazy.”
“Not if they know you like I do.”
“Well, that’s the best I can come up with right now. Are you in, or are you out?”
“Of course, I’m in, baby. You’re going to need the big, strong man there to protect you, right?”
“Right.”
“Then when are we leaving?”
“I’ve booked a flight that’s supposed to leave about an hour from now, and we’re already packed and ready to go.”
“And just what made you think I’d agree to go with you?”
“You never miss an opportunity to strut your muscles.”
“Like you never miss an opportunity to flash your cleavage?”
“Exactly.”
“Then, I’ll get the bags. Let’s roll!” |
|
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| She Lies |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|01:05 am] |
She lies on the bed,
her legs widely spread
to the pleasure she feels
between them.
Her eyes,
once sparkling
with life and
newness, now hold
the wisdom
she sought.
Her muscles locked,
by indirect will,
for the wrists are bound,
arms tautly stretched
by hands smaller,
yet stronger
than her own.
The only movement
she makes
is her delicate head,
which tosses
and turns
with her moans.
And there lay I,
Her Succuba,
Drinking in her Innocence.
For what she learns,
She shan’t forget,
And I teach
The lesson well. |
|
|
| The Raven |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|01:04 am] |
The Raven, donned in ebony,
Spreads forth his tarry wings -
Takes flight to one who opens me
Who makes my nature sing
Dost thou? He cries in reverie
Beneath the silvered moon
Beckoning my Love to me
To take his rightful tune. |
|
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| Submission |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|01:03 am] |
Saturated sands of
Invisible seas
Sliding down face
Of fairest moon;
Pools of wisdom,
Drained, replenished -
Now demure and tranquil.
Torrential rains,
Prior knowing
But pearls upon
Softened petals of rose;
Below them,
Lying languidly,
Swaddled in fury’s dew,
Tattered hills and plains
Gave will to Storm’s desire.
Gentle mountains rolling,
Waves of glory spent -
Fulfillment of sheerest
Essence of life.
Fires quenched;
Death of embers
Once smoldering -
Now no longer.
The earthen clay
Gently yielding:
Mold her as
Thou love her best. |
|
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| Awakening |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|12:48 am] |
|
When the crimson and deep plum rays of dusk have alighted upon the evening's last visible horizon, the scorching flames of the setting sun paling in comparison from the fires your being has ignited within me, only then shall I beckon you from the depths of your impenetrable, subconscious world. Only when each gentle stroke from my delicate fingers upon the smoothness of your flesh no longer quell - but feed - the fuel of my desires, when every sigh of unconsciousness that spills forth from your luscious lips seems a melodic plea of impending passion, when the time arises for a decision to be made to either quench my parched thirst for you or succumb to the flames and let them devour and consume me, only then will I gaze upon your languid countenance with more than cherishing awe and adoration. A solitary petite hand gliding slowly from the curves of your hips, the firmness of your muscles turning the sands of eternity into precious stone as a single finger dips into the shallow cave that had once harbored the strand of your existence. Your glorious, sleek frame stirring beneath my touch, your handsome brow furrowing as though your fantasies are angered, for they are not as eager to release you from their grasps as I am to feel your passion within me once more. The hand instinctively ceasing its passage of wonderment, somehow knowing my wish to lose myself in your luxurious beauty without fear of interruption. You must not awaken at this moment - it is not yet time. My soul burning with desire to have you, the flames flickering higher, growing stronger, but it must wait, as I want to relish your exquisiteness a while longer. Yes, it must wait. Whispers only capable of being heard by unconscious minds bid your cognisance to cast aside the physical cautions it has raised, no harm shall ever come to you in my presence, your safety is undoubtedly certain in my hands, and to sleep, my sweet one, to sleep... Your visage slowly softens, a gentle smile playing upon my lips, believing wholeheartedly that every creature - earthly or no - would willingly sacrifice themselves one thousand times over to be where I am at this moment - in your embrace, gazing upon the countenance of epitomized magnificence. Yet again, I silently wonder what I ever could have done to have been granted such paradise; the heavens cannot possibly be anywhere other than Earth, for I have found them in your arms. Your tender lips parting, amidst my ponderings, in a sigh of bliss, wordlessly calling out to me to taste the sweetness of their nectar - a wish I will grant soon enough. Sensing the tides pulling you further into the rapid currents of subconscious imagination, the delicate fingers begin their journey once more, pausing shortly to play upon your chest, my face nuzzling into your electrical warmth. The fingers, having memorized every curve, every crevice of your magnificent body, making their way to your forehead, no mental direction guiding them, the tips ablaze as my desire for you reaches near its pinnacle. I can bear it no longer... Fine lines are danced between the realms of ultimate pleasure and ultimate pain, and my want of you, my dearest one, has crossed fully into a world of agony... Yes... Yes, I must have you, but gentle must be my touch, as the slender fingers caress your lean, firm, glorious figure, the motions of my petite frame, full breasts, rounded hips, limber thighs defeat the world of reality, crossing over you and passing into your subconscious wanderings... It is time, my darling - time to beckon you back to me... Do you hear me calling? Awaken, beautiful one... Awaken into me, and let me fill your world with passion once more... Come to me, my precious one... Come.... |
|
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| For Only This Moment |
[Dec. 18th, 2005|12:14 am] |
|
I want to awaken in your arms, exiting a fantasy behind closed eyes, entering a realm of consciousness so enthralling that its reality is initially doubted. Feeling the heat of your sleeping figure seep into me, smiling and letting a blissful sigh escape from my lips as your heart sings its throbbing sonnet of life - your chest rising and falling, like gentle waves caressing the soft, golden sands of eternity before being swept back into the dark waters once more. Your face contorting, the doors to your eyes gently rattling, silently tucking away memories of years past, keeping hidden the subconscious frolicking of your imagination. With gentle fingers, nonsensical symbols are traced upon the smooth, sleek sands of your lean stomach, outlining every animated rib, tracing the clavicle from shoulder to neck. Softly, slowly, the petite fingers slide up the tender flesh of your throat, pausing briefly to feel the pulsing life beneath them before continuing to the gentle angles of your jaw. I lie in awe of you, unable to stop myself from gasping, as your concentrated beauty is too much to bear in a full inhalation. The petals of your soft, rosy lips part in a sigh, a delicate smirk raising the edges ever so slightly. As though fearing a less gentle touch will corrupt your magnificence, I lightly brush the earthen tendrils from your face, silently asking myself how I could be so lucky as to be lying next to you, my mind and body elated to have been allowed the honor of cherishing you in such tight proximity. The backs of my fingers stroke the side of your cheek as soft, loving kisses are placed upon every inch of your countenance, from forehead to chin - save your lips, although they mutely cry out for a lasting embrace. No, I wish to bide my time, to relish their smooth curves and tenderness before placing my own upon them, drinking in your visage, as though breathing once again for the first time. As the soft flesh of your lips are outlined with a single index finger, my heart overflowing with adoration, a sadness consumes me... This is but one fleeting moment in history, and my very soul weeps in anguish of this realization; although a wish may be made for time to render itself void, allowing me an eterity of awakening such as this, a virtual infinity of rising from subconsciousness, forever overwhelmingly thankful for the honor of being allowed another day to know you, to admire you, to cherish you. Aware of the impossibility of witnessing this ever-changing world to its eventual demise - even with such a glorious creature as yourself - emotion gives way to logic, and I know that every moment with you is precious, and should be treated as such. For although tomorrow may never grace me with its presence, the elation brought about by being near you for only this moment is exquisite, allowing me to revel in it with a gentle smile dancing upon my lips. Even though I may not be physically eternal, the joy felt by waking in your arms will be everlasting. So sleep, my sweet one, and let the bliss that swims within me find its way into your dreams. |
|
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| Chaos Canopies |
[Dec. 17th, 2005|10:26 pm] |
Under chaos canopies
Shields of twisted
Gnarled vines
Strangling massive
Growth of oak
And only fruit
Repressed desire
Foliage - self-lies
Deceit
Corrupting poisons
Tainted sap
Fertile truth
In darkest soil
Immune to false
Infection
Bloom buds of
Gentle purity
Defiant to
Spilled strangled
Light
Grows still in
Darkest hour |
|
|
| Untitled |
[Dec. 17th, 2005|10:22 pm] |
Wooden puppet
Whittled heart
Floating broken
Seas of sand
Once waves of passion
Now barren land |
|
|
| Thaw to Ache - Part 2 (Death Conspiracy) |
[Dec. 17th, 2005|10:15 pm] |
Hand of Death
Reaching in
With a sweet
Seductive grin
Weak lay I
In Agony
Another Loss
Embracing me
Such Emptiness
In Darkened room
And Sealed Within
My body's Tomb
No life, No love
Absent desire
No work of mind
Nor passion's fire
'Gainst innocence
Death did conspire |
|
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| Thaw to Ache - Part 1 (I Swear) |
[Dec. 17th, 2005|10:09 pm] |
Heart of Stone
Glacial Ice
Imprisoned by
My own device
Cruelest words
A Love betrayed
Anesthetized
That very day
'Til naught was felt
'Cept Hate and Rage
As Heart lay weeping
In its cage
In tower cell
Behind locked door
Kept safe from Pain
Forever more
Or so I thought
Or so I swore |
|
|
| The Lost Kingdom of Tremeare - Part 1 (The Plight of the King) |
[Dec. 17th, 2005|10:03 pm] |
Many moons have come and gone
Yet Love shall conquer all
Seasons race since Kingdom's fall
Left standing only one
The King in Tower's tight embrace
Clings steadfast to his soul
In solitude his sorrow paced
Searching half to make the whole
With Hope and Love his guiding light
His quest her only fire
He summons day and summons night
Yet decades do transpire
For Kingdom's sake she must be found
She surely must be near
When halves unite - rebuilt on ground
Lost Kingdom of Tremeare |
|
|
| Where Are You? |
[Dec. 17th, 2005|09:59 pm] |
Flames of Passion
Hotter, higher
Where is One
Who fuels my Fire
Who quells my Fire
Who, all at once
Feeds and quenches Desire? |
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