Glorious ShitAnother Dream-You can make it;Pass through shitTo welcome the divine.********************What kind of mind is this?What kind of perversion?You don't make much sense to me,You don't make much sense to them-You don't make much sense.Return to painting flowers,Name flowers flowers,Name darkness strangeness,Name genius a vile trait.We cannot decipher you...Bend down a little.Everyone needs their audience-Who are you to dispute?Who is it you're talking to?It can't be to yourself!Alright. Now...Everything is illuminated!(I can write my glossaryOf horror and neglect.)Do I love you?Of course I love you,Nobody else still caresAbout the little things,Such as your senseless self.(Yes, I'll make everything clear,The way you want me to.)Let's speak a new language,Let's call man the Head,The alphabet into the globe-The stud of universe.(Of course we are the center,Can't you see?)NowStrip.Stop laughing,Stop writing-Stop mocking me!You are a brilliant little b
MotherA knot deep in my stomach-An unbearable growing painContaining breaths and scars,Momentary intervals of our life's game.A knot in my throat,Choking me before the rise,Depriving us of understanding,Taking away left time.A tidal wave devours my skin,Casting me bare, without a kin-Without the courage this blast to bare,Stolen from time,Convicted to just stareAt every day that passes by,At my lack of bravery,My egoistic past wounds driveSafekeeping me against the onesI should be the least afraid to love.A knot is tied around my heart,Bred inside it for years-For too damn long for me to claimDespite the drain I still have one.
The WriterI am not my stories-Not all of them at least...There is truthAnd then there's fiction.Spare me just this.
HardDo not flirt with Death.He will fuck you anyway.
ReturnIf Time existed,I would not.The face is erased,My eyelids reversedTo form a danceOf dissonant notes.The unbeliever in me,The lioness in me,The crimes perpetratedUpon my life;All these exist-While I could not,Even if I wanted to;Within this hellNo man could breathe,Expand, or love.Take this sigh,This glimpse into my underworld.Step in,Or forever Goodbye.
LoversYou define me.You hold me imprisonedin the snaresof magic unprecedented,under the reign of love.My eyes are wet-and in thisthey're not alone...I want you.I must devourevery inch of you-Before it is too late,before the passion disappearsas unexpectedly as it came.
The Serpent's RevengeFlames protrude through my eyes.The pain is sharp,clear inside my mind.As the smoke escapesfrom my future corpse away,everything is possible.The epitaph stands cold,alone within my life,in memory of fear.I grow into a lionessroaring through my spirit.My soul is for saleto anybody interested.The flesh grows old,denouncing my history.Hanging from a thought,this world I leave behind.I denounce my possessions.From the imposed egoI recognize but fearaugmenting with each loss.Our prisons we buildwith our faked tears.In full denial we screamtowards the unattainable.With hatred-filled fiststhose secluded we attack-Like amoral beastsdemanding vindicationin the name of victims sodomizedin their reign of broken human pacts.
BitterIt starts with a feeling,a flashing memory,a suggestion of movement
It all comes back to me:Faces, dates, facts.It all comes back to me-But I am not there
A teardrop, your handinterchanging genders
Our lives could bethe finest, most delicate,most intricate scenarios.My thighs spread apart,waiting for you.My mind gets rid ofits burdens most unbearable.The music is familiar-And so is your smile
Always promising,never truthful.While I gnaw away the timelost in contemplation,you start another life.As lovers we first met.As foes we diefrom our histories apart-Creators of riddles,friends to no one.
Turning into GhostsWho's that face on the wall?Who's that mirrored mask of horrorother than my own?Leaving the years flowwithout the time to lookinside or outside,we let our livesmove on their own.So drag this carcass on the mud-Smear its facewith these horrid colorsof solitude and alcohol.For of this selfwho used to be my own,I recognize the traitsbut not the whole.
Embarrassing Stories: Hanging Wedgie Growing up in the country with no friends around was boring, even though I was too young to understand what boredom meant (although I had an idea when my mom took me to the bank). The place I used to live had a lot of trees around, so I learned how to climb them. If you've read the title, you can already see where this is going. Even after we moved, I managed to find trees to climb. In fact, there were even more around this time. Our new house had a long driveway with a few turns, and trees covered the sides of the driveway from beginning to end. You couldn't even see the house from the road. The tree that I really liked to climb was right in view of the driveway, so it wasn't very far from the house. It had a bunch of strong branches, and each of them was covered in leaves. One time I threw a Frisbee and it got stuck in the leaves, so we threw a soccer ball up to get it down. The Frisbee came down, but my beloved ball got stuck.
School Bus Wedgies This story happened back when I rode the bus with my friend Breanna and our mutual friend Lacie. Breanna and I were sitting together in one seat while Lacie sat in the seat in front of us. Breanna was (and still is) bigger than I was, so she was taking up a lot of the seat while I sat against the window. Somehow, there still managed to be enough room for both of us and our backpacks. Lacie was sitting in the seat in front of us with her backpack. A bit of description here before I go on: we were alone in the back of the bus because most people were gone (our stops were near the end). Our bus driver never really cared what happened as long as we didn't go in the aisle (anyone notice that seems to be every bus driver's pet peeve?), so we usually got away with doing whatever. It didn't matter how loud we were or what we talked about, she just did not care. Lacie seemed a bit tall, yet I was still a bit taller than she was. She was a
The Wedgie Game Again, I found myself at my friend Breanna's house while her friend Roxanne was over. Breanna's father wasn't home, and we were just sitting around outside talking. Breanna's house was small, and kind of empty outside except for a few bushes and trees. We sat in a few plastic chairs by the house, next to a huge oak tree with strong, curling branches. "Hey..." Breanna said, "You know how we've all gotten wedgies lately? Both of you, me, and even Lacie?" "Yeah," I said, "You had cute panties." "Well," Breanna continued, getting a devilish gleam in her piercing blue eyes, "How about we play... the wedgie game?" Roxanne and I were confused, of course. We asked her how to play. Breanna explained the rules. She pointed to the oak tree, and said that if we wedgied someone, we had to hang them by their undies on the tree. She picked up one of the plastic chairs, and brought it over to the tree, placing it under a part
Against His WillINTRODUCTIONThis is the true account of my personal experience as a feeder, fattening up my husband against his wishes. I have done my best to offer this story exactly as it happened, other than changing names, with no exaggeration. You may feel that what I did is morally reprehensible, and I cannot disagree. But I also cannot bring myself to regret even one moment of it. It was the most exciting time of my life; I have never felt more alive or sexually satisfied. Not to mention the child who resulted from this brief but scorching affair, who is today the light of my life.I. BORN THIS WAYMy name is Marie and I was born with this fetish of feederism. All my life, as far back as I can remember -- maybe age 5, long before I even had a sex drive -- I have had an intense fascination with overeating, fat bellies, and weight gain. It was the subject of pictures that I drew and stories that I wrote and fantasies that I daydreamed. I was always overweight as a child but not remarkably
Mi autorretrato escritoGastarme en la descripción física sería una pérdida de tiempo. Todo el que me conoce me puede ver, y el que no, mejor. Es más lindo que te conozcan por lo que hay adentro tuyo que por tu apariencia.Y no, no hablo de tripas, porque de esas tenemos todos y es asqueroso.De mi misma puedo destacar gustos, como los libros de ciencia ficción o las películas que tienen poco sentido y son muy malas pero, de tan malas que son, pasan a ser buenas. Los cómics irónicamente tontos y los chistes de humor negro me dan mucha risa. No, esperen, todo me da mucha risa.Soy desatenta cuando se trata de una responsabilidad y soy irresponsable cuando se trata de atención. A duras penas hago cosas que no me llaman la atención. No obstante, curiosa insaciable cundo se trata de temas interesantes.Me gustaría hacer lo que quiero, cuando quiero y como quiero. No siempre se puede... aunque en ese sentido soy básica, simp
skin.skin taught hipbone to hipbone like the skin of a drum as my fingers play the keyboard of my ribs,digging deep to pluck them like boomerangs from the corset of my chest. stomach like a cave whispering lies that echo in my bones.there's a vortex in my middlethat i refuse to feed,a blackhole that only grows.(but it doesn't seem to know that i've forgotten how to be hungry).the empty echos the ice in my heart and the empty in my head.the countdown has begun.(caged rabbit heart is dying slowly).and i know you'll come again soon. you always do.there is a dead songbird in my chest,and its wings are clipped and laid to rest.i know my place.i know the way my body fits next to his like a corrupted equation. 2+2=8. but you and me will never equal a whole number.this selfhate was hardwired into me at the age of 11 along with the memories of your searching hands presspresspressing into me like a prayer.but there is nothing holy about your hands,nothing sacred about my
The LampI threw that lamp away today. The tall, floor lamp with the faux brass finish. A dream-catcher and a cat that loves feathers just so happened to spell out its demise in a violent dissonance of shattered glass, cat yowling, and the pounding of my own heart in my ears. I just find it strange that, of all the times it's fallen in my room before and though it landed on carpet this time, the etched glass bowl chose now to break.It made me remember that day. You know...you remember, don't you? Dad and I had slaved for days painting the walls and putting up that wallpaper mural. It wasn't until after we had finished our task that we realized none of my old bedroom things went with my new, more mature décor. I had grown out of the pastel hearts, and lacey pillows, and teddy-bears. I'd moved on to Italian vistas, and marble pillars, and rich wood. I slept that first night beneath the pink and white striped bed covers that I had used for the last twelve years of my life, silently bemoaning
A monologue of a broken heart.What becomes of the broken hearted? Nothing. You think you know love -- then that love turns out to be an egotistical self-involved bastard who's no braver than the house mouse living in your walls waiting 'til you least expect it.I've made mistakes before. But nothing compares to the ones made with him. The ones made in his arms, his unloving false arms' embrace that somehow once made me feel warm and made heart be tender. And in that false embrace I made mistakes under false illusions. Illusions that this.. boy, this child, could love me and make me feel like a woman! A woman I am not, I am but a child, a girl who has been broken by the same boy too many times and more. I tried to end it once, twice, and ended it be on the fifth. But this was all too little too late, as he had touched me and I him.And is it so much to ask that I be loved again? It must have been for once another man loved me -- A man this time. Not a child, a boy. A man. And this man I turned down. I gave him false
Fighting Darkness:- BlurbFighting Darkness | BlurbWhy would a child grow up believing that she has to be perfect in everything in order to gain the approval of everyone around her? How does a child go through her whole life believing that everything always is and always will be her fault? How does a child spend a lifetime fighting battles nobody can see?It's easy when the child in question suffers from a disease we, as humans, like to never mention. We pretend it doesn't exist and that the people suffering from it are just insanely sad: Depression isn't really real
is it?Alexandra Glass has suffered from depression from further back than she can recall, although she hated to name it then and still hates to name it now. There have been times her darkness has clung to her tightly; like an evil octopus
yet there have also been times when she has managed to push it a small distance away: immense battles with little result.How does one child fight an ever-growing darkness?
AliveI am a black canvasSmeared with gold and red.