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To Be A Writer by Snow-Machine, literature

Literature

To Be A Writer

To be a writer Means to have yet another excuse for bad behavior. It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans and start to choke. Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took me aside and said "You two are going to destroy each other," with a little Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's eyes. So one day I felt like being more clever than romantic and I caught you b

A Passion worth Regretting by Canescen, literature

Literature

A Passion worth Regretting

Dusk enshrouds paralyzed eyes whose wretched haze chains down the light, Holding it in bittersweet abeyance. Could it be, that for all the moon's august gleams, it has suffocated? Has it abandoned the foreboding sky? How could it leave me to bow before waning silhouettes? I cannot dream into an empty night. Can't you tell me why I steal endlessly through fields of cold shoulders, Dismissing the leaden echoes of their billowing nails? Is it just to experience, if only for a moment, that lonely flower's feigned beauty as it arrests my nerves once again? Hollow hands can only long for the taste of flesh, And wit

And Then There Were Six by The-Virgin-Suicide, literature

Through My Eyes by purple--diamond522, literature

Literature

Through My Eyes

We are spinning through the sky, tracing each constellation with our fingertips and feeling the very seams of the universe against our skin. We soar and glide through the tangled mess of the cosmos and intertwine our bodies with the ribbons of light drifting towards the darkest corners of the sky. We see all of time spread before us, each instance a square of yellowed film forgotten on the cutting room floor. Wars and battles swirl at our feet, mixing together in a multicoloured pool until it becomes impossible to distill the faces from the bloodied weapons littering the ground like plastic soldiers. The past, on

The Sad House of the Boar by thelittlewolf, literature

Literature

The Sad House of the Boar

There is a sad and twisted house on a quiet little street. This sad house is ruled by a great and dark boar, covered in a coarse, grizzled bristle of hair. This boar is huge and angry of temperament. His foul disposition keeps at bay a kindly and free-hearted mother bear, and a tiny dark bat who lives in the attic of the sad house. Though, even the great boar cows down to a twisted, misshapen creature who hides away its terrible countenance in the back room of the sad house. The kind mother bear goes about her happy tinkering in the yard behind the sad house, often late into the nights, dancing for the moon, and on to greet the

Anatomy of a Deadgirl by 345652SW38, literature

Literature

Anatomy of a Deadgirl

My skeleton is a barbed wire framework glossed over with spun glass and glitter-glue stars. (Break it.) My skin is melted magma, sizzling upon contact and twisting in imperfections and pimples and moles. (Burn it.) My blood is poisoned snake's venom, thick black sludge that is retracted slowly by a razor's gnawing gore, withdrawn from a well deep within my soul. (Bleed it.) My organs are burbling instruments, bubbling a glutinous rhythm. (Oust it.) My hands are hole-filled gloves sewn on to stubby, chubby stumps of arms. (Cut it.) My ribcage is a birdcage, trapping the anxiously fluttering butterfly that is trapped within my heart a