What is Love?There was a princess who at the youthful age of 16 already knew more about human suffering than most of the elders in the kingdom. At age 2 she had been so sick that she would have died if the brilliant doctors of the land had not attempted surgery on her. As a young child she had been the victim of bullying and as an adolescent, though she was now old enough to take the throne, she felt complete isolation.
The Princess knew that none of the courtiers wanted to speak to her, so she would take her food during meals and sit beneath the stairs in the Great Hall, where she dined alone with none but the imaginary creatures she had created with her vast imagination to comfort her.
One day the Princess felt her heart strings straining to stay intact. The pain was so unbearable that she sought counsel. To her dismay she was met with only mockery, ridicule and disbelief. She decided that the only way to escape her pain would be to take her own life. The Princess ran to her room and found the ne
Thomasin's Monologue(This is a monologue from a play I am working on. Thomasin is a tavern wench who is in love with the prince of England. He loves her too, but Thomasin fears that one day their union will be discovered and the people will lose their faith in William. She has been contemplating giving him up so he can marry a princess and rule the traditional way.)
THOMASIN: Oh, will nothing remove this stain? What is it that lurks in the mouths of the ruffians who frequent the tavern? I dare not really ask. Thank the heavens for these rags so I do not have to touch this with my own hand, I fear I’d lose it to some foul disease if I did.
Oh, William, many times you have said that this is not the place for me. I do wish that I could be by your side every day. I live for the days you comes to the tavern. When you are near me I feel like a lady, not a wench. You treat me with respect and speak to me as you do the court of England. If all men behaved in such a way, women would have an easier time findi
Selfish PeopleI would like to take some time today to discuss a topic that many people tend to veer away from. We all think about it, possibly even on a daily basis, but we rarely bring it up to the offenders. Instead we choose to hide behind our computers, ranting about it on Facebook or Tumblr, and the offender never even realizes the post is about them. I am speaking of the fact that far too many people these days have a False Sense of Entitlement and/or live in the almighty Land of Me.
Now, I am not too harsh with people about this in most cases. Yes, every so often we do want to just have a Me Day, or do something that will only benefit ourselves. This does not make anyone a bad person. It just makes you a human being. After a long day at work or school I am sure just about everyone needs a bit of that coveted Me Time. However, you should not be the absolute center of your universe.
Selfish people oftentimes do not even realize they are selfish. I mean who goes around saying, "Yeah, I only care
Guardian AngelThere was a strange time in my life when a creature of nightmares became the source of my salvation. I had been kicked out of my mom’s house when I was nineteen because she is one of those crazy, tie you to a chair while forcing you to listen to church hymns for hours on end types, and I refused to stop believing in supernatural creatures, despite her efforts to exorcize me. I had been on my own for about nine years, in a crappy little shack in the city, just outside the crack dens and the whore houses disguised as flower shops that were mysteriously never open during the day.
When I say my house was crappy, I mean it was so bad it should have been condemned by the state. If I jiggled the doorknob too hard it would come off in my hand, most of the shingles were missing from the roof, the upstairs bathroom window was made of plastic wrap, the basement had so much mold I had to board it up so nobody could get in, and the heating only worked for half an hour at a time. Everything in
Things That Piss Me OffMy cousin refers to my parents as the Incredible Hulks. They will get blazing mad over the simplest things. I have literally seen them flip out over dropping something that never even broke when it hit the floor. They just aren’t very patient people, but they aren’t abusive, so I just tend to go to my room and wait for the storm to blow over when one of them gets like that.
I do not have as short a fuse. It honestly takes a lot to make me very angry. When I say “a lot,” I meant you have to just keep doing something that upsets me over and over until I am positive that I will never get you to accept my viewpoint, and either of us has any idea where to go from there. That being said, there are a few things that piss me off right from the get go, but I still try my best to remain civil until you try to force your ideas down my throat.
#1 Thing That Pisses Me Off
This issue tends to happen mainly through technology. I am normally texting, messaging or someone direct
Let in the Shadow Let in the Shadow
Loki opened his eyes halfway, the dazzling blue irises sparkled and his thin, pink lips parted just enough to reveal snow white teeth. A soft hum rose from his chest and his heart beat increased when he saw Tony above him like a guardian angel. The scientist's face was only inches away; close enough for Loki to catch the unmistakable scent of what he had come to know as Scotch.
"When you're alone silence is all you know."
A few months prior to this particular night, SHIELD had chosen Bruce Banner as Loki's personal therapist. Originally they had planned to imprison Loki when Thor came back to Earth with him. It took some doing and a great deal of patience, but in time Thor had been able to convince Fury that Loki was merely a lost soul who needed guidance and someone to talk to. Bruce had been able to crack through Loki's rough facade, but he could not seem to dig to the heart of the issue.
"When you're alone, silence is all you see."
For those who are teasedPity those
who throw knives
at your back,
and they're left
with porcelain skin,
and broken knives.
he saved me, but he killed me.
i. first light- i met you in a crimson forest.
it was a rose garden summer, and out of a black mercedes
you walked out, your five year old eyes greener than
you reached up to pluck a rose from its stem, and offered it to me.
"what's your name?"
daddy told me that i couldn't tell strangers my real name.
I looked at the rose in my hand.
you smiled, you were a seastorm of now long-gone innocence.
i didn't understand
but I knew.
ii. i forgot about you for
1562 days, 11 hours, and 22 minutes,
my name, but i didn't recognize you
until i saw your eyes.
iii. my father fell and didn't stand back up again.
i screamed, and you carried me home.
iv. i didn't talk for a week.
i stared at the gray of the sky. it was the color of my father's eyes.
you sat next to me in the pouring rain,
Anxiety attackAs the attack begins,
I feel myself slipping away again.
And I question things that are better left unsaid.
And contemplate if I am better off dead.
My anxiety is killing me,
I feel my hands shaking.
And I am sobbing.
And am I dying?
I am just trying,
To get a grip.
But I feel my reality slip through my finger tips.
Nothing is real,
Except every bit of pain my mind forces me to feel.
Every memory that I had shoved away.
Is now racing around my brain.
It's driving me insane.
And my limbs turn to jello.
Every time my head hits the pillow,
Before I go to bed.
I start to panic and I am wide awake instead.
More thoughts are swarming around like a hurricane.
Make it stop!
And just like that,
The attack is gone.
Ugly Scars“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
Of course it does –
It hurts more than I’m worth
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
Of course I’m embarrassed,
But I’m used to the blame.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Why don’t you stop?”
Can you stop a dead body
From starting to rot?
Because, darling, you see,
I’m not even here.
I’m only a corpse
With no hope, and no fear.
“Why do you cut dear?”
Well, don’t you see?
There’s a pain inside
So deep within me
And it’s coming to the surface
But no one understands
So I put that pain
Inside my hands.
And I lay it out
For all to see
On wrists so red
And forearms that bleed.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“It’s ugly, you know.”
“ugly” is exactly
What this is meant
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scars
On the insides of my wrists,
White hot pain memories shoot up my veins
And the tear vapour creates mists
In the lenses of my glasses.
My world narrows down to those
White stitch marks that keep the
Patchwork of my forearms and thighs
Keeping the dark ugly hurt
On the insides
How could I have done this to myself?
Could I blame you?
And her too?
I’m a big girl now,
And the blame rests on my wrists,
That flicked the blade
And sprayed the blood,
And the mind that forbade
Me to ask for help.
I’ve said it before
And I’ll say it again;
It isn’t beautiful
To put yourself through such pain.
When your head is buzzing
From the hit of the high
Of a new cut on your thigh,
Or your mind is lost in a mist
Of ecstasy from a new slice
On your wrist
And you’re dependent on it
A junkie needing a hit,
It isn’t pretty or cute or special.
No amount of kisses
Will undo the cuts
Or absorb the scars.
God's PaintbrushI've learned that God's paintbrush is incredibly flawed,
with lashes picked at, and bristles torn nearly off.
I don't think everybody likes what God paints,
because we're always trying to smear it away.
We cut off a few pounds, or cut up some skin,
when we soil the paper, we throw it in the trash bin.
I think His paper has been sauntered with tears,
or blood, and vulgar language from our peers.
Like others have taken His brush and dipped it in oil,
and have painted themselves, in a way that's soiled.
I knew that God's paintbrush was incredibly flawed,
but that doesn't mean that we should change it at all.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” they say,
perhaps it would be better to keep it that way.
I'm incredibly certain that God makes no mistake,
I think that we do, when we try to be fake.
When we take His art into our own hands,
and when we ruin the strokes that He carefully commands.
I don't really think that God wants us to be perfect,
if so, then He wouldn't take th
concrete doesn't exist without waterwe dream about the nights
where your head is resting
against my chest,
with blankets sprawled,
our legs intertwined
you right hand locked
with my left,
and my right hand
placed on your lower back.
and while i see these things
in my sleep,
i lie awake imagining
the fragile moments too.
not your cliche
but when i say something
without thinking and it hits
you in the place where i swore
i’d protect with my life.
when i say something
that means the world to me
and it’s nothing
but a scoff for you.
when someone’s loved one
finally meets meta
and we have to be there
still dealing with the physical.
i think of those moments
far too often
and how we’d handle
them when we’re just strong
enough to be fragile.
simplicity is intentional
and humanism is concrete
until life hits
and it isn’t what you imagined.
i think of bones encased in goldcall me sisyphus; my wrists
grip napalm nations & i am
parasympathetic. i speak
in cigarettes, more stippled
spinal cord than american
romanticist. sanguinary, pocked,
my pleural cavities leak
prozac pills & -
oh, this body has never
belonged to me.
BipolarThere's that moment when I wake up in the morning,
And without a warning.
I feel myself plunge into the ocean.
As my thoughts drown me,
Like anchors tied to my ankles.
And I feel the water all around me.
I am being consumed by the sea,
My mind is my own worst enemy.
There's that moment when I wake up in the morning,
And I get that feeling.
In my chest,
But it's not pain.
I feel like I am actually sane.
Or maybe a little more than that,
I feel creativity and happiness,
And just plain joy.
I can't describe this emotion,
I just know that I actually feel alive.
Maybe even more than that.
And I can laugh and I am okay.
But then there is the next day.
And the next,
Until it all goes away.
And then I am neutral.
I am not manic.
I am not depressed.
I am not anything.
I feel bored, irritated.
I don't know what I am.
Just plain, nothingness.
I don't feel creativity flow through my finger tips,
I feel this might be a sinking ship,
Fades to the next hour or so.
And I am once aga