We're growing in numbers.

Young sickle fledgling look at how you stumbled from the womb on two legs made of yarn.

Warmth radiated -not only from the flickering candle upon the wooden table that we gathered around, but also from our tongues as we shared our memories of home. We threw our heads back and howled at the moon with passion lulling beneath our tongues and strength in our lungs. The cold crept through small cracks within the frame of the dirty windows, with gusto, threatening to stifle the flame. But we burn. Burn. Burn on.

such dark, dark monsters stirring inside of me.

put those hands away

A scratch in the surface, what is the purpose?
And if I could open wounds and unravel scars, I'd do a pretty number on you.
I feel trapped.
I kneel before the King, I have nothing for you, he says, slamming his scepter down, a look of heavy dismissal pulling on his brow. The walls begin to close in as I'm pulled from his grace's presence. No. Please hear me. Phantoms of misery cast down from the ceiling, bound for my heart, my flesh, what little hope for humanity that I have left and it's gone, within a moment, not even a moment because that exercises a flick of consciousness from the mind to own some state of being, a sense of self, but I had none, no time to gasp, to throw my hands up to shield myself, to cry, to run, to plead, anything. If hopelessness was a physical entity that could fill a room everyone would choke on it. They would all fall to their knees, asphyxiated, with pain and confusion contorting the features on their face. In my decomposing state, I would hear their shrieks and cries, whatever could escape their mouths, and I will smile because now they know how I feel. Yet, I am for the better, I will stand upon their corpses after I pile them high. I will throw my arms up towards the stars and ask for the brightest spotlight to show the world what I have done..

Desire for chaos.

Sleeping children weaving dreams of honeysuckle and games of chase through the small world that they call home. "Come play with us," shouts a little, blond girl with more authority than she cares to question. "I won't play your little game, but I know a better one," I say with an urge at curiosity and a wan smile. That's it. Yes. I've got them. I see their faces light up as if the city behind me has suddenly gone to flames, reflected in their eyes, and that's what I intend to do..

Put me back gently, just where you found me.

I was born in the wrong century.

I can't take anything seriously.

I watch people sitting motionless behind the wheel of a car, bidding it to do their will - accelerate, brake, turn, follow a car obnoxiously close.. I have to laugh at it because the image and very nature of it seems so stupid. We've got this brilliant structure called a human body and legs that were created specifically to take us places, yet the average person spends most of their time not using them! Is that painful to anyone else? It makes me sick. Not necessarily the laziness, carelessness or so on but the sheer fact that they don't care! Do your body good. Care for the one thing that you own that will do you anything meaningful.

I wish I could be just like them, able to feed the bullshit and triumph from the game. All of these silly, mundane, almost pathetic social interactions like textbook that we keep ourselves tied to. I'm so sick of it all.

It has been raining for seven months.. Any means to an end is starting rear it's lovely head, while batting those long lashes and seducing me with a sideways stare. Oh, come here my lovely! - Anything to numb the pain, to stop the gray and to make it all go away!

A door opens in the molecules of oxygen before me. An apparition, perhaps? A way out, hopefully? A painful death, possibly? I'm through that door without a single glance behind me..

I just hope there is..