"Cinderella, brush my hair for me. 1000 strokes, no more, no less."
Scowling, I walked over to that poisonous woman, her silver hairbrush resting in my hand. "Yes, Mother dearest." I muttered, taking my place in the chair next to her. Every single day, it was the same old thing; a list of dull, uninteresting tasks, all of them demanding to be completed. Life had become something of a bore, but it was my life, and I took it in stride, fighting to find some enjoyment in it.
"Cinderella, have I ever told you the story of my wonderfully perfect life?" Mother asked, waving her hand fo
I wear your shirt
just to inhale your scent.
It feels like
your arms around me,
I'll imagine your hot breath
on my neck,
I can almost feel your dry lips
tasting my skin.
I take a deep breath,
draw in your essence.
I imagine you here.
Sitting here,
Watching the snow fall.
Covering the land with a blanket,
Tucking the beauty away.
Sleeping beauty,
Such beauty,
Put to sleep,
Hiding her beauty from the world.
How long do we hide,
With our covers drawn to our chin?
Siting here,
Looking at a snow flake.
So many,
Each one different.
A master piece,
Who crafts them?
Are we crafted too?
Each one of us a simple snowflake,
Made to cover up some other beauty.
Will we ever know why?
Each piece or art,
One to hide another.
I want to understand,
Detail is not a key...
But a clue..
I'll figure it out,
Where beauty comes from.
Just got to follow the clues,
One
Even though I fall apart
And my garden of organs doesn't seem to work so well
Even though my veins are freezer burnt
And my toes can't always find the right steps
Despite my shadowy eyes
And my light, hollow bird bones
Even though I slip and swerve
Sometimes I glide
Sometimes I soar
I choose to love, instead of hide
And because of this
I'm not fool's gold, honey
I'm the real thing
Anastasia.
The main focus of her stress, her repulsion, and focus for the past year.
Standing in front of her.
"Who are you?" Ann asked, tentatively. The creature seemed too hurt, too vulnerable to be the dangerous abomination everyone said it was.
"Anastasia," it said. "I know who you are."
"You do?"
"Yes. You're the one like me."
"Yes, but what ARE you?"
"Anastasia," it repeated. It thought for a moment, then said, "The others who aren't like you or I, why do they chase me? They call me 'zombie,'" the word was unfamiliar and was stumbled over carefully, "and try to hurt me. Why?"
"Because you're different," Ann told it.
"How do
Prologue - Noir by ChamberlainOfRavens, literature
Literature
Prologue - Noir
It's raining outside. But when is it not?
I look at the old bartender, so old that the counter's dim light makes him look like he's been serving drinks since time began to tick.
- Pour me another one, Jack. And make it double this time.
Another dose of whisky. Another cigar. The smoke swirls up, and some guy, in some bar across the street, begins to play his sax.
Damn, that last case. I knew it would end up with trouble the moment she walked into my office. It was raining back then, too.
But those legs...
Ah, those legs. Long, white legs, looking like they were made from some Chinese porcelain. "Them legs always get the best of me." I t
Remember when we rode in the sand?
Our chariots colliding
We ruled the land.
Remember when I got you in trouble?
I thought it was funny
You made father bubble.
Remember when I took off that night?
The truth unfolded
I was coated in fright.
Remember when I questioned my life?
Those words that they spoke
Stuck like a knife.
Remember when I killed that man?
In fear and panic
From you I ran.
I remember when she took me in
While I was consumed
By deadly sin.
I remember when he opened my eyes
And my cries were lifted
To the skies.
I remember when the bush was red
God was there
And he said:
Holy ground you tread upon,
Take
Staged on this hill,
I am amazed by this constant change.
This sky is almost teen like,
No one can even begin to understand.
Mornings can go either way.
Clouds of gloomy gray showing how bitter and cold it is,
Though sometimes it is blue and already warming up.
Clouds dancing here and there,
Mounds' of them hanging out is key to its teen relation.
Tears of chilling rain tend to shower us,
It's the terror filled night storms that tell the hidden story.
Winds that shriek the held back pain,
Huge crocodile tears rain down to show lonely time can be.
A teen calms as does our emotional sky,
Birds fill the happy moment to give it a sh
Do you want to be my sister ? by fango-pango, literature
Literature
Do you want to be my sister ?
Hello there...my name is Jenny,i'm 7 years old.I must sound real old to you mustn't I? Well,i've been waiting all year for this and it's finally just 2 days away.Christmas.Just saying it makes me feel funny.I've already asked for what I want for Christmas (I can't tell you,or you'll want it too,so shhh) and i'm getting a special visit for Christmas this year.My mummy said when I was very little I had a big sister,who is 25 now.My mummy said when she was 20 (when I was only a little baby) she left.I'm going to meet her on Christmas day.
Last night after dinner I went straight to bed,my mummy asked why,I said "so I could make Christmas hurry u
These blurry eyes of mine can no longer see,
For they are filmed with my vivid memories.
My every mistake constantly plays so clear,
Catching every detail that I care not for.
I don't want to remember my time of shame,
A time where I accepted help from another.
I grow weary when thinking upon my past,
For the lines I've drawn cannot be erased.
I am exhausted from carrying my sadness,
But I don't know the reason for these tears.
My life isn't a tragedy, I'm always smiling.
Yet I do not know why I am so sad and alone.