The Writer's Library.

Heartbeat. The heart beats and beats and beats itself up, every moment of life. Beating itself up until it cannot beat one beat more.  With motivation it beats faster and faster with vigor, chanting and howling, only to collapse and beat weakly when its energy is spent.  Softly it beats in our sleep. So quiet and lonely, it quietly continues to beat itself.  Softly it beats when we wake, always so quiet and lonely.  Beating itself up when we are sad, beating itself when we are joyful, that loud red organ.  With each beat it brings us life, yet it beats itself because it wishes to die. 

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 th...

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.