StyleOverSubstance

What heaven sent with thorns was rent and what was broken what's been bent it's a token will never mend forever crooked never straight the lines will never meet again all the loose ends remain that way no one knows any more we're all the same lost; forevermore

I thought a walk would clear my head; that only made it worse instead.

ice on the sclera. you burble dreams like breaks in your bones, a maze of missteps and misdirection. left scarred and crooked-- a patchwork of words you'll never be able to push back together because coherency goes out the window when you can't make your body listen, when the floor becomes concrete and casts become prisons-- you're more mold than human. breathing staccato, breaking angular: a dry rot into a hand-dug grave, stone chiseled with apologies from everyone but God because he doesn't apologize for anything.

Oh! Caring Mother, how delightful you are You are always both stern and kind You reach out your hand to needy near and far Yet somehow remain sane of mind You sacrifice your will for your children You are a stable queen who needs no king We request wonder and it just happens I am truly thankful for what you bring There is no being like a mother Oh but can I compare How I do feel when you are near? Spreading your joy to those so dear It is the time to appreciate And we mourn each time we show you hate Oh Mother!

He had seen the Man again. It had been late that afternoon, when the sun's arterial light soaked the brown stalks of swaying grass crimson. The man had been standing by the roadside, beside a telephone pole. The Man's shadow had flitted into the car through the windshield. He was imagining things, he knew that, but when he had passed the Man, he could have sworn the shadow was cold. The car's tires crunched against bone-dry gravel. The engine idled for a moment, then dropped into a near-silence broken only by muffled mechanical ticks. He leaned against the steering wheel and held himself there for many long moments. How long had it been since

It hadn't taken him long to find Ilya and to send a message to his sister's rapist. Now the ex-boyfriend was staring at him. Shock and disbelief clearly written on his face. And not a little bit of fear as well. Seymon smiled briefly, leaning against the bar counter. It wasn't a kind expression. Ilya gaped, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. "I- you, you're supposed to be dead." "Missed me?" Seymon considered him for a moment before tucking his sunglasses away. He had nothing to fear from security cameras. Vampires didn't have reflections after all. He wouldn't be incriminated in Ilya's death. Though there would be disposal to c

there is always something attractive about the tragic lady coiled in tears, who's flawless like unconscious moons. the white broad back from direction never can see what she lacks—a path, a path converged within my own façade. she nonchalantly avoids the way carcass lagoons lure her to drown in the sand of her eyes. jejune reflections shatter swathes of gloomy smoke, fading in the hood of mirrors— sadness spatters involuntarily like petite precipitation. this is when she disappears, when i finally see through her.

A girl asked me the other day, “Did you really say ‘Hands up, don’t shoot’?” I nodded. She wrinkled her face almost in distaste. “Couldn’t you have said something more optimistic? The rest of it was great- that’s my only criticism.” I froze because I honestly didn’t know. Why had I said it? Well, ‘cause everyone else did. But why? WHY is it so important? I thought of the answer just as I lost the moment. “We will say ‘Hands up! Don’t shoot!’ until they stop shooting. We will say ‘Hands up! Don’t shoot!’ until they stop choking And mur

I cautiously walk up the steps, conscious of my dress swirling around me. The doors open, revealing a long hall with a plush red carpet. As I enter the hall, the doors close behind me, leaving hundreds of little candles as the only source of light in the hall. Before I can take another step down the hall, a man dressed elegantly - but clearly in a servant's uniform - comes forward out of the shadows. "The party is in the fourth room on the left, milady. May I take your travelling cloak?" the servant asked. I was too slow answering, my mind was elsewhere. "Oh, um, yes! Thank you," I manage to stutter. I unclasp my cloak and hand it to the serv

You dip your fingers in paint; They looked like thin sticks, turning and turning and turning. You lift a bunch of sticks out of the bucket, strings of lemon yellow lazily strolling down your hand, your arm, to the ground. Wringing your hands, you watched as they flew-Like birds!-and hit everything, everything and anything in between. You rake your fingers through your hair, coating the coarse strips of ribbons in layer, after layer, after layer of colour. The spikes dried quickly. They stood tall and proud, like hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of little soldiers The thick yellow, slowly, slowly, slowly rolled down your spikes, your ch