A new story, probably one that won't really go anywhere. I'm just in the writing mood. It's from an unnamed character's perspective...but I'm basing her off myself so...yeah.
I was not kind to myself as a child.
Learned behavior....
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Something I recently wrote. A bit gory. I hope you like it.
Pale skeleton fingers.
Pale and slim, bones
pressed
against her mouth.
"What's that?"
She tries to hide from me in a swirl of hair. but
I see t...
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So I'm allowing people to become guest posters in my creativity world now. Basically, it's for people like me who have creatively strange minds. If you're proud of your strange mind, and have writing or artwork that reflects what's in your head or has very deep meaning to you, I would love to see it here! PM me if you're interested in guest posting.
This was an assignment from the college course I took this summer. We read a poem called 'why I write' and then we were asked to do our own 'why I write'. so here's mine.
I write because i am sick inside. I write because the world hurts and I can feel it. i write because My emotions are too strong--a tumultuous, wrestling storm that threatens to tear me apart from the inside unless I constantly keep pouring it out. I am a well, an endless well of pain and tears. As a child I tried to bail out hole in the ground, not understanding how it kept filling--again and again, eternally filling with more seeping water, too fast for me and yet somehow so slow I could not understand how this small force had beaten my human will. But I understand now. It was a well just like me. I, too, well up with pain, with fear, with sadness, with despair, with tears and with screams, my body heals itself only to succumb to the seeping force of the well yet again, and the pen and paper are willing to draw upon my well. I write because my mouth cannot find the right words. My mouth is broken but my mind is still churning out ideas. I write because no one can interrupt me or call me wrong. I write because my words have power. I write because it empowers me so much more than speaking. I write because it strips me of the proud layers and coats of shiny paint I have layered over myself. Paint that suffocates me. I write because it makes me human. I write because it makes me a beautiful human. I write because the paper conceals my identity and keeps my secrets. I write because it is necessary, essential, and right.
Hey guys, so as you may have gathered, I have my computer back. I'm still not allowed on Facebook, but I don't really need Facebook. I have theO and music on this computer, so that's good enough for me! Thanks for all the support my friends gave me when I was upset, I am feeling a lot better now. I'm also no longer mad at my parents. Holding grudges doesn't do anything good for me, so at some point I had to let it go. Anyway, here's a new piece from English class called Unwaking. I hope you like it! Make suggestions please, to tell me what's good or what I could improve on. I like feedback, and need it to become a better writer.
Unwaking.
By Sarasface.
My imagination
often takes me to places I don't want to go, places I know
I shouldn't go
where feet walk upside down on a sky
of dark sidewalk
and the head is way down low.
Where the sky holds no color
and the brown grass doesn't grow.
It's trampled, flattened by hooves,
and by slushy, dirty snow,
melting,
marred by deep trapped prints
seeping into air where I breathe in fears,
Hit by tidal waves of fury, I drown
in tears. The world is
dark green, muted, I hear
screams
echoing from below, sobs--my own--
shake my back, my shoulders, my bones,
echoing on all sides are
moans
from the zombies that are this
city of gray debris and broken buildings, shells. A granite, faded mutation, this hell.
Wake! Wake!
Before it is too late.
The ground above my feet trembles and shakes.
Towers wobble in a tumultuous earthquake of emotions,
accept it already, I know I will break.
I'm smacked hard against
the ground, again and again, renewing
old bruises that never go away,
the sky is mottled sick purple and
gray. My face no longer rests in the dirt.
This is the exact place and it hurts.
It hurts.
My skinny legs tangled, twisted, and trapped,
bruised and bloody, like the face. Breathing is fear
No one can get away from here.
Still they crawl. They'll never stop.
Am I one of them? I'm not.
Their claws scrape the backs of my
hands, twisting their fingers in mine,
frantic.
Is it hunger? Do they crave
something to eat, or is it me?
The only drifting, living thing?
Are they lonely? I am. My head is full of sand.
Gritty, foul gray sand. I am not--I am them.
Wake, wake,
before it is too late!
I must escape.
I must escape!
