Oh God. The pain, the searing pain. As if all the nerves on your body were triggered at
once. The pulsating open flesh, the crispy black-laced trims bordering the overpowering
rouge muscles. That piercing scream that echoes in the lonely air, sending shivers down
your spine. The metallic, rusty smelling liquid gushing out, outlined with transparent
yellow gunk.
Heart beat escalates. Someone help me. Knees clenching tightly to your chest. The
bitter taste of your pathetic tears. Make it stop.
Turning off the television does nothing. It’s just an actor. It’s just an actor. The
haunting image of her, the neve
Dark, thick clouds of smoke covered my vision. I took small, planned steps to ensure I wouldn't fall into any holes in the scorched floor boards. It seemed that almost everything I had once cherished, everything I had taken for granted, had perished.
Extensive piles of ash overflowed in each corner of every room. What was once a beloved item was now mindless dust, soon to be blown away by soft winds to come. In the bedroom, lay a crispy, black bed-frame, complete with a lump of ash thrown into the middle. Everything that was once a soft purple or deep brown (fitting into the theme of my room), was now a dull, lifeless shade of grey. But peek
Have you ever had the rhythm of a poem flow through your body like a roaring river full of unimaginable strength?
Each syllable shining a light of new perspective. Every word carrying a newborn thought and idea.
The striking emotion that is hidden between the lines glances at you, only to cower back in fear behind the safety of hidden distress.
One can only imagine the delicacy of the written word, each more fragile than the last.
A Masterpiece in the Making by Thepandagamer, literature
Literature
A Masterpiece in the Making
I am a work of art,
A masterpiece in the making.
I am a canvas painting,
with abstract thoughts scattered across the mind.
I am a fractal,
a never ending mystery always with unexpected surprises.
I am a poem,
expressing emotions through the artistry of words.
I am a black and white photograph,
waiting for someone to find my hidden colors deep within.
Shining candles lit all around me,
Exaggerated shadows fill the darkness.
Footsteps and conversations
Pass by as if I don't exist.
Softly falling on my knees,
My eyes are like clouds
That are a grey mistaken for black.
My voice petrifies the air,
but no one seems to hear.
Am I imagining these screams?
Or does no one care?
I feel trapped in a cage,
Abandoned by all I love
Everyday I wait for the one with the key
That will finally set me free
That little chicken just wants to fly.
Someday she will touch the sky.
The others laugh and tease
They told her, "Oh Please!
You're a chicken and nothing more.
You will never fly off this floor."
That little chicken finally replied,
"One day I will sore with pride.
I shall watch the world from above.
I shall be as graceful as a dove
As my wings tickle the wind."
That little chicken walked away as she grinned,
"You'll be sorry when you get skinned."
As I slide my fingers down the knife,
I often question my life.
Who would miss me if I was gone?
They would find my body sometime near dawn.
Would they celebrate or would they cry?
I can see them weeping where I lie
Perhaps its not time to say goodbye...
Hugging my books tight to my chest,
I suddenly begin to be depressed
Their eyes watch me as if I am some kind of freak.
My body falls weak.
These tears I cannot hold,
Down my face they rolled.
Because of how you judge
Down the hallways I trudge.