Write-Handed-Elite

Words sipt out recklessly A prelude to a fall In a damage-machine Set in Spite's factory A night in which demons roar Struggling to break their chains And they are calling my name They are calling me If one can't survive But yield to its Master's call Should instead break open The putrid doors of Hell itself? A flowing stream of hate, blood and fear Runs through Dream's fingers Awake in a glassy Bell jar The shreds of his ego are calling His voices are calling my name They keep calling me!

On a day Everything is broken, Bent and burnt Everyone is so far away It's rainy inside I want to make you stay We'll run away and hide I want to feel your touch over me See the roses bloom as you drag your finger Through my arms and legs, you see, Forever merged we'll linger You left your mark, you made me feel Fearless, as if I overpower death I miss you so, I cry I beg I kneel At your feet so you forgive my heart so black It's not on purpose, as an accident it is Except between us, I am god, I am fate I choose your love , I desire your kiss I swallow the pain, take you as my mate.

She ran. She ran through the maze of dark corridors that her sick and twisted mind (as she described it) represented. She felt so lost feeling the anger taking control over her sanity. If she ever was sane, she couldn't remember it, and she probably didn't like it either. Even though all this madness was killing her slowly there was a part of her twisted self that enjoyed it, the pain, the fear, the anger… I'm bad she told herself, and the sweet and enchanting (and bad, really really bad) voices inside her head approved. All this people telling her what to and what not to do, society reduced to do's and don'ts. A society where don't

The stench of decay, and the wolves at bay, chewing my house of sticks to splinters. Crickets chirp, unmoving, dashing into the hour. They said there was no cure for the dead, but perhaps they were wrong, (they've been wrong before) Howling cries and screaming lies, dripping down like rabies. Wet eyes and dry mouths, talking of a fruitless morrow, countless fears unknown, and the multitudes of sorrow. They called us crazy, and once, we doubted that, (but they never once proved that they weren't crazy) Tongues swollen with glazed poison, feeding the flies that swarm, sickly hands, and dried-out hearts, we swore forever that

Imagine that - if your face dropped off, just slid from the front of your skull. Your complacency would be sucked from your bare nostrils. You'd try to cry, except your tear ducts are now on the floor, swollen with the build-up of years and years, and your sockets are left as dry as bone, and I think it's funny because it's appropriate. You're pleading for help from that god you never bothered to write to, asking the oracle in your computer for a symptom checklist - I am so proud of you for being resourceful. Eventually you fall quiet. In your dressing-gown you look like a slice of Hallowe'en. "No one wants you now," I inf

You know she's just asking for trouble. A pile of shredded napkins beneath her trembling fingertips, a testament to just how close she is to losing the iron control that she's had for so long, needed for so long. The bar is quiet enough that she feels safe, a little unfamiliar world that is separate from all the places she's been before. The sounds of the living brush at the loneliness tightening slowly around her heart, her throat, her lungs; a terrible vice that cannot be stopped. This one, she does not belong here amongst the cheap alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. She shouldn't be staring glassy-eyed at the wall, not daring to blink and

we love like we sin, terrified and breathless. we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders that even beautiful things can be made ordinary. we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers, mimicking the millions before us who were judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly. we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not know how to hold gru