The Writer's Library.

A melancholy mizzle Settled over the falsely promising sunrise. Not a single breath of wind came along To scatter the sky's agenda awry. This miserable drizzle! The awful sprinkle was to last all day. Not storm, or soften, But steadily mist all the day.

How the night changes! We enter into a world where we see, But do not understand. Yet as we begin to understand, We cease to see as vividly as before. In fact, we hardly see at all.

I sing down rain and thunder, Never birds and butterflies.  When I scream, ears shall bleed.  When I whisper, there will be silence.

In classes, when my mind wanders, it always goes to the same tangent: What if someone came in right now and shot me in the head?   It would be easy. In each of my classes I sit in the front corner farthest from the door. A clean shot. An easy enter, and an easy escape. But sometimes I don't think about that; its a good day when I don’t.  Today was different, I was having a good day, and I thought about it. I thought how I wouldn’t mind if it happened, because I’d die when I was in a rare good mood. That was today. I’m stressed, I needed you. I needed something to hold on to and nurture. I needed to lay your head on my chest and pet your hair.  I needed you, but I didn't tell you, because I felt guilty. It was 3 am. I hadn't gotten sleep. I tried pills. I tried wine. Nothing. I was in agony.  I had myself half convinced I should leave you for your own good. All I’m good for is destroying things; all I touch withers. Nothing thrives.

I use words to paint my pictures Each sentence a swish of the brush, blending without hesitation, Like a master, who expertly refines and forms his subject. Master at his art, yet he cannot express his heavenly visions that appear So bright, and detailed, vivid with colors not from the rainbow, that no mortal can describe. How then, am I to describe to you the complex swirl and storm of emotion that I feel? How can one paint a scene in colors that others cannot see? How can one describe their emotions when no such words exist?

I wait for the moon to rise, So I may stir from my stony rest, And unleash myself onto the world. The silence feels velvety warm On my dry skin, Restoring its healthy lush and spring. What a pity that others cannot see This youthful, invigorated, opulent, glowing spirit. Only in the darkness do I feel this way, For once the light comes, I crumble back into cold marble, With glassy eyes.

Woods are the safe places, That keep the darkness hidden. Beneath the covers of gracious trees, Forever hovering and casting shadow. Cloistering the divine dark stillness, Sheltering the darkness from light's prying eyes.

(An Excerpt from a Short Essay)                Why is it so interesting when I write down my stream of consciousness like this? It's all merely gibberish that I just barley manage to haphazardly scribble down in a bemused frenzy. It tells no fascinating story of dragons, or drama, magic or scares, nor anything happy, or sad, or angry. It just simply is; and afterwards, it is hated and harshly criticized by me. Yet, I dare not toss any of my madness; I never know when it might come in handy. I may find my scribbling a useful reference.                          Sometimes I write things, and all they are are bits and pieces of some of my ridiculous ramblings jaggedly cut and pasted upside down and backwards with the dullest of safety scissors and the thinnest of glues, into a semblance of sense.

What does it all mean? Love. The fix. That's all I command of you. Without my precious love, I shall shrivel up and die. My life's blood that I live for. That's why I am here. But you're not. And where are you, When I need my drug the most? Gone. You left. There are other dealers in the streets. In the market for some love of their own. Their smoke might be bitter; It might be as sweet as yours. But they all do the same job, In the end.

Oh how impossible, unfathomable, Appear these beings, Who seem to search me out, As a scientist a specific specimen. The thought of them haunts me by day, And every night I must face them. Which is worse: The endless waiting, With every second ticking by an hour, Or the facing? For each time they appear, "Why???" I persist to them, as I lay still. I wish to only understand, But I suppose it was never my place to know.

This is it. I have gone mad. Lock me away in a padded room, And throw away the key. All I ask is a pad, and some dull pencils, That I may scribble down the Madhouse of my mind, Believing myself to be in Blissful, delusional peace. Tell them I love them, That they fill my thoughts, While my mind shall still have them. Tell them all to carry on, And be happy. The rest of you may forget about me; Do not visit. What good to me is any love that I did not have to earn?

A killer in London, Stalking his prey. A forest in Germany, Where fairies play. A chateau in France, Where houseguests waltz. Prisoners in Belgium Who lament their faults. Forever I am free, So long as I close my eyes I dream. An artist, A killer, A survivor, A romantic. Those who Dream Their life Away Experience Everything And Nothing. How I miss this world, This forsaken, Cursed, Blessed, Charmed, Euphoric, Wondrous, Wonderland.

Finish what you chant, Triumphant and malicious, Your seemings are fictitious. This epic narrative of you An insight of a fragment Of a mind so often stagnant. Only stirring for chimerical dreams, Chemicals slipping through the seams. Smoke, and wind, and electric storm Angry will of character born. Left of reality, Bending out your little farce. Escaping to your child's tower. Not mindful of the day or hour.

Listen to the silence It will teach you sorrow Sometimes it tells me There is no tomorrow Listen to the silence No one is calling. It tells me I am not missed. Listen to the silence It showed me a way out It tells me Death is without doubt.

Venomous wrinkles, Scattering in crinkles, Rippling actuate twinkles, Shatters of unicorn skins drifting in her glassy eyes. A blind doll, Unseen in the mirrored hall, Close her eyes. Quiet laughter, For she sees what is to come.

Tick and tock, Sounds the clock, HOW I CANNOT BEAR THIS. It is not the clock that sounds, Instead it is my heart that pounds. THE SOUND OF MY HEART SLOWLY BREAKING. For every moment you stay quiet, My soul is sent into a riot. I BEG OF YOU TO SPEAK YOUR MIND.

So resolute and agitated am I, That I scarcely sleep at all. My body shakes with all the rage and sorrow That it barely manages to hold at bay. I wish to be left in peace, But my mind refuses to rest or think; It can only run in circles, Forever restless until what passes must. I drag my feet in lament, And wish no further to carry on, But I am a helpless slave to the angry fire That fuels my soul, Keeping a tight, constricting reign over me.

I wait for the decay of my body To match the decay of my Swiftly fading spirit.

I wait for the moon to rise, So I may stir from my stony rest, And unleash myself onto the world. The silence feels velvety warm On my dry skin, Restoring its healthy lush and spring. What a pity that others cannot see This youthful, invigorated, opulent, glowing spirit. Only in the darkness do I feel this way, For once the light comes, I crumble back into cold marble, With glassy eyes.

Iron bones, Glowing eyes, Quivering ears, Heightened smell, Pointy smile, Quick feet, Flowing hair, Sharp intelligence, Wandering soul, Overflowing emotions, Human mask, Behind the machine.

Did I? Did not I hear... Something? I prick my ears about the room: Searching out the pin that dropped, As my heart hipped and hopped, Till my anxious breathing stopped, And pricked my ears through the muffled gloom. No, no. Nothing, I insist. Nothing here but doors and walls. No mysterious shades slink through the halls. No, and no, and no again. I heard nothing, I insist. Dare I fake, And continue my pretentious glamoured sleep, Or wake? I burrow deeper into my towered cushions, As if I might find a peaceful sleep Among my favorite plumpéd sheep. Was it? Or was it not it again.... Something? My hound-ish ears up spring again, Upon my nose a phantom stir, My eyes snapping wide this did incur, Out of my false rest it managed to lure, Cursing imaginative ears as my bane. No, no. Nothing, I rehearse. Not a shiver of a painting, Not some long dead ghost in waiting. No, and no, and no again. Nothing for my ears to hear, I rehearse. Do I dare to pee

Here’s to never ending circles, Spiraling circles of pain. Here’s to hoping it would stop, The spiraling circles of pain. Here’s to knowing it never will, This spiral of pain. Why does it all mean nothing to me now? Why don't I feel pain when I should? Does this mean I cease to be human anymore? I feel so useless that I’d still somehow function even if my brains were pulled out through my nose. Is everything ok? Nothing and everything under the sun. Fuck sophisticated poetry, fuck eloquent words. Here’s to being exhausted, Waiting for this bomb to drop. And here’s to sleepless nights, Only getting drunk to fall asleep. Yeah, I’ve been abused. Yeah, I’ve been put down. Yeah, I’ve been on the mend. But I never had friends to begin with, so it doesn't matter in the end.

Tears. Water. Drowning. Drawing a bath. Back to tears. Sobbing uncontrollably on the floor. Grief. Is this what grief is like? I've never felt grief. What a strange new emotion for me. Grief. Curled on the floor, sobbing. Shaking. Gasping. Shuddering. Crying. Agonizing. Grief. Water, rivers, cold tears and hot emotions. The ferocity and emptiness of grief.

         Exploding out, atom by atom breaking away. In that moment, I cease to exist physically. A dark numbness and tingling, keeping me from moving. Its like my body turns to static waves. Screaming in silence. Sorrow, but not sorrow. Sadness with anxiety, tears with agitation. Scratching, scratching, scratching. The sound of static, coming closer, getting louder. Not eating. Picking at my food. Focusing on breathing. Each breath harder, more forced. Sucking in the air, your throat closing up like a straw. Fighting to keep the static away. All concentration aimed at continuing the function of feeble lungs. The heart running with adrenaline. The static moving. Moving to the face, moving to the chest. Taking control and stopping  all feeling, all capability of movement, freezing, stopping. Everything shutting down. Shutting down. Shutting. Down.

I've been thinking so much... Death is too easy, I don't want death.... I thought about slicing my thighs open, vertically starting at the knees to my hips ...just the aesthetic of it, flesh peeling back from the bone....It makes me laugh and feel giddy... Laughing SO MUCH. I'm shaking so much from adrenaline. I want to rip apart something with my sharp fangs, feel the blood gush and burst and pop in my mouth. I want to shred something to ribbons, the way I was. I was shredded into ribbons, and hung up to wither in a cold, numb, unfeeling meat locker, mafia style. My heart is palpating, pounding at my chest. I feel so feverish.. SO MUCH BLOODLUST.... So much pain...

A memory. A moment. That miraculous epiphany when we can recall things we thought lost to that meandering encyclopedia of the brain. Memory seems so fleeting. Yes, it's me. I'm back to writing. It feels almost as if I never had left, yet the clumsy erratic flow of my penmanship says much to the amount of time that has passed. My writing feels so out of practice, such a contrast to my memory of smoothly skating across the page, filling line after line effortlessly. I have timidly sprung forth from my melancholy. I feel so upbeat and optimistic. The wonders that love works chemically on the brain. I feel life is winsome, eternally youthful. I feel more sociable than I have in my entire life. I can look at art again. I mean, not that I couldn't look at it before; I just see it all with newer eyes. I can truly look at it, deep into the sophisticated parable of its aesthetics. Devour it, absorb it. I remember I fell sobbing hysterically on the ground. I couldn't

I feel so quiet, as if something marvelous or gruesome could happen before my eyes and I would feel nothing emotionally. I stare at nature, and I cannot be awed.         I think of secrets that I keep, and no longer feel the need to keep them hidden, nor do I feel the need to speak them to others. People will only get caught up in what they think of things and judgements of character. Why need they know more than that I am human like they are, and to be content with this.         Anger is a useless emotion; and happiness is too short-lived. Yet I want to feel emotional, and full of life, passion, and color, but, I cannot find it. It is just that I feel....nothing. Nothing but the NEED to write this all down, which is strange for me. I feel the expectations of others and confusion over when I do not feel them, nor feel the need to meet these expectations. I am merely a robot controlled by some other, sharper, more intuitive being or entity. Yet, I am fine. I scribble faster