Two-Hundred-Eighty-Six by TheEpicRavenChild, literature
Literature
Two-Hundred-Eighty-Six
This is a journal.
This journal is secret.
Journals are banned.
I am not supposed to write things that are not notes.
Thoughts are bad.
I cannot help having thoughts. I cannot say them. I must write them.
Please forgive me.
I write until I cannot any longer.
Day 1:
Today I woke up. The morning bells rang at the time they do every morning. I got up and went outside. I met my classmates. We walked to school. We said the pledge. I was asked to answer a question. I answered it correctly. My classmates clapped. We ate lunch. It was pizza. I sat with my friends. We went to math and science. I answered more questions. I got them right. Then we wen
Eliza Sanders
Our Mother
Died October 27, 1923
Age 100 years
AT REST
Mothers find their children irresistible.
Children find their mothers even more so.
Families get torn apart.
But mothers always love.
Look, I'm an Alien by TheEpicRavenChild, literature
Literature
Look, I'm an Alien
KITCHEN WINDOW
Wood laid out in slats
And smooth floors where people are sweeping
crying
melting
The browning of meat
and tiny elbows
They eat.
BATHROOM
Fish run through the air
And wet-magic flows through metal spouts
To white, clanging bowls that catch your spit
I can smell you now.
GARAGE
Grey, as though long ago it was the color of my face
Masses with long lines of squiggles running them,
Trying to form things called words,
Line it.
Small, thin ledges where dust collects and nothing else.
Blue.
"Pooh was here".
CHILD'S ROOM
A fuzzy noise emits from its caged face
Black knobs rest on top and a
large, metal rod p
There is a place
Stacked together in plasma soil
Melting our beliefs into one
Continuous flow of energy.
It is a place where candles breathe
In sunset wine glasses
we call
chalices.
This is a place where we don't cultivate verity,
but variety
And we forget the label of truth.
This is a place to call home.
But where you
and you
and you
and me
Gather in one room to discuss the meaning behind truth,
You all are the heat of the hearth,
Loving, playful, yet maternal,
Caressing each other's skin with the
Love of familiarity,
While I
I am the seabird burning in your flames.
She is a liar she is,
A confused woman
Uncertain of fate
or presence.
She laughs at her own death
And lies to her own heart
And promises the noose
To all who reveal truth.
So today, I saw, she didn't cry
She didn't smile either
But she knew that vanity
was her only virtue.
She's a poet, she is,
Looking for ways to entertain,
to build her circus
To romp in the light of the moon.
She yells to the sky
And kisses the earth
knowing that's where she's going
When she decides to die.
So today she prayed to nothing
And wished no prayers to to others
She dressed as though she cared
But knew life would end tomorrow.
Faerie Maker: Castles Prologue by TheEpicRavenChild, literature
Literature
Faerie Maker: Castles Prologue
Prologue:
Warmth.
We were.
They only saw.
We could only understand.
Warm breezes and empty grasslands.
That is all that awaited us.
None of us had any more words.
Our brains were mute and our tongues forgotten. We seemed to have lost our ability to believe. Life was no longer an issue in our disintegrated minds. We were no longer together in our camp of forgotten woes. We had become separate in our journey so that together we were not and could never be again, and like a bouquet of bubbles, we were heading our separate directions, directed by the wind of insomnia, intolerance, and pain.
We were now individual.
We could no longer fathom that
“This is where I hang up now,” she said, her voice condescending, cold, and arrogant.
“Okay,” I laughed, “I love you.”
The phone was silent, and I realized I had been talking to no one. I sighed and continued up to the front steps.
I put my key in the key hole and turned slowly. I heard the click and I removed the key, turned the handle, and opened the screen door. As I inserted the key into the bolt lock, I heard the door unlocking from the inside and my dad opened it.
“Have a nice walk?” he seemed almost sorry that I hadn't collapsed on the ground from the cold outside. Maybe he thought t
Two-Hundred-Eighty-Six by TheEpicRavenChild, literature
Literature
Two-Hundred-Eighty-Six
This is a journal.
This journal is secret.
Journals are banned.
I am not supposed to write things that are not notes.
Thoughts are bad.
I cannot help having thoughts. I cannot say them. I must write them.
Please forgive me.
I write until I cannot any longer.
Day 1:
Today I woke up. The morning bells rang at the time they do every morning. I got up and went outside. I met my classmates. We walked to school. We said the pledge. I was asked to answer a question. I answered it correctly. My classmates clapped. We ate lunch. It was pizza. I sat with my friends. We went to math and science. I answered more questions. I got them right. Then we wen
Eliza Sanders
Our Mother
Died October 27, 1923
Age 100 years
AT REST
Mothers find their children irresistible.
Children find their mothers even more so.
Families get torn apart.
But mothers always love.
Look, I'm an Alien by TheEpicRavenChild, literature
Literature
Look, I'm an Alien
KITCHEN WINDOW
Wood laid out in slats
And smooth floors where people are sweeping
crying
melting
The browning of meat
and tiny elbows
They eat.
BATHROOM
Fish run through the air
And wet-magic flows through metal spouts
To white, clanging bowls that catch your spit
I can smell you now.
GARAGE
Grey, as though long ago it was the color of my face
Masses with long lines of squiggles running them,
Trying to form things called words,
Line it.
Small, thin ledges where dust collects and nothing else.
Blue.
"Pooh was here".
CHILD'S ROOM
A fuzzy noise emits from its caged face
Black knobs rest on top and a
large, metal rod p
There is a place
Stacked together in plasma soil
Melting our beliefs into one
Continuous flow of energy.
It is a place where candles breathe
In sunset wine glasses
we call
chalices.
This is a place where we don't cultivate verity,
but variety
And we forget the label of truth.
This is a place to call home.
But where you
and you
and you
and me
Gather in one room to discuss the meaning behind truth,
You all are the heat of the hearth,
Loving, playful, yet maternal,
Caressing each other's skin with the
Love of familiarity,
While I
I am the seabird burning in your flames.
She is a liar she is,
A confused woman
Uncertain of fate
or presence.
She laughs at her own death
And lies to her own heart
And promises the noose
To all who reveal truth.
So today, I saw, she didn't cry
She didn't smile either
But she knew that vanity
was her only virtue.
She's a poet, she is,
Looking for ways to entertain,
to build her circus
To romp in the light of the moon.
She yells to the sky
And kisses the earth
knowing that's where she's going
When she decides to die.
So today she prayed to nothing
And wished no prayers to to others
She dressed as though she cared
But knew life would end tomorrow.
Faerie Maker: Castles Prologue by TheEpicRavenChild, literature
Literature
Faerie Maker: Castles Prologue
Prologue:
Warmth.
We were.
They only saw.
We could only understand.
Warm breezes and empty grasslands.
That is all that awaited us.
None of us had any more words.
Our brains were mute and our tongues forgotten. We seemed to have lost our ability to believe. Life was no longer an issue in our disintegrated minds. We were no longer together in our camp of forgotten woes. We had become separate in our journey so that together we were not and could never be again, and like a bouquet of bubbles, we were heading our separate directions, directed by the wind of insomnia, intolerance, and pain.
We were now individual.
We could no longer fathom that
“This is where I hang up now,” she said, her voice condescending, cold, and arrogant.
“Okay,” I laughed, “I love you.”
The phone was silent, and I realized I had been talking to no one. I sighed and continued up to the front steps.
I put my key in the key hole and turned slowly. I heard the click and I removed the key, turned the handle, and opened the screen door. As I inserted the key into the bolt lock, I heard the door unlocking from the inside and my dad opened it.
“Have a nice walk?” he seemed almost sorry that I hadn't collapsed on the ground from the cold outside. Maybe he thought t
Favourite genre of music: techno Favourite style of art: realism, poetry, music, photography, manga MP3 player of choice: Zen Favourite cartoon character: Ash Ketchem Personal Quote: "Who I am is who I am, and is not always who you want me to be."
Favourite Visual Artist
too many
Favourite Movies
"Whip It" or Castle in the Sky
Favourite TV Shows
NCIS, Fruits Basket, NCIS Los Angeles, Pokemon, Digimon, Cardcaptors, Masterpiece Mystery: Sherlock
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