Haunted






I feel you with me all the time.

Sometimes it drives me crazy.

I don’t want to think of you.

Dream of you.

Be consumed by you.

It terrifies and excites me.

But I should be scared.

The danger is far more real,

Then the fantasy.

But the fantasy is so

Good

I can’t turn away.

I want it to burn me.

Control me.

Use me.

My body wakes up

At the thought

Of your icy touch.

I can’t help it.

You are not real.

You are a ghost.

This is a dream.

This is a nightmare. 

Don’t wake me up.

Broken


Broken_Toys_by_Faryndreyn

Broken toys, some of us are.

Damaged bodies, riddled with scars.

Caught forever in between

A normal life, and something obscene.

Atrophied legs, unwholesome parts,

Distract from the beauty of our hearts.

But who cares about that anyway?

Life is a game, we are forced to play.

It doesn’t give the broken a break.

It doesn’t care that it made a mistake.

It makes some perfect I suppose

To rub it in the cripples’ nose.

You’ll never be beautiful

Never be free

To be what others can easily be.

But I have a secret that life doesn’t know.

My brokenness has helped me grow.

Strong enough to overcome

The tormenting parts of life for some.

Some like me who wake in pain.

Who fight each day to simply remain

Some form of life in this glamorous place.

Where precious treasure is a pretty face.

I’m stronger now, as time will tell.

Strength was forged in the flames of hell.

I’ll never be like all the rest,

But I can still be my broken best.

 

 

(p.s. I always miss you.)

Priceless


Step right up, have I got a deal for you! Although it might not be immediately recognizable, you my friend, have an opportunity of a lifetime staring right at you.

“It doesn’t look that special”, ah, to the untrained eye possibly, but most truly valuable luxuries aren’t as shiny as expensive autos with their expensive price tags.

You see, many valuable things were once considered worthless. Often true value is ignored by those who have had the lengthiest possession of the treasure. At least when it comes to what we are talking about…

Ok, so maybe I’m not sure this is for sale anymore. The more I think about it, the less I want to get rid of this treasure. Maybe one day I’ll give it away. Maybe to someone who will recognize its value. I’m not sure that person exists though. It’s certainly not something worth waiting around for. Maybe the best thing to do is to really recognize and value what I possess. Regardless of whether or not anyone else sees its worth. The last thing I want to do is get rid of it, only to find a “priceless” sticker labeling it while it collects dust on a shelf somewhere.

Confession?


I’m not sure what exactly this is, but this morning I felt good. Happy, for no reason. If any of you were writing that, I’d say that is a good thing, but with me, I’m not sure.

I don’t typically get happy. I’m more of a somber person in general. Always have been, which is why I noticed it was weird that I was happy. There is a possibility I’m over-thinking this, but what should I do? I took my kids to school and have accomplished some stuff, but I’m scared.

If I was happy for no reason, does that mean soon I’m going to be more depressed, emotional, angry for no reason? I don’t understand what would make me feel happy. I mean, life is good. I know that, but I don’t usually feel it. This is stupid to be writing about. I know that much, but I don’t care.

Anyway, I don’t know what I’m doing. Sorry for this post, I wont blame anyone for unfollowing me. It’s just weird. I’m concerned my hormones are out of whack, or something’s off, but maybe it’s normal. Do people wake up and move around and feel happy for no particular reason?

The Arrival


This is part of a book I’m writing as we go. A blog book if you will. Yeah, I know that’s not how people are supposed to go about writing/publishing/promoting books, but I’ve never been a fan of rules.

My previous post was the forward to it.

It’s too late. The fire is dying.

Shhh, I think I hear something.

Huddled around the dwindling fire, the women spoke with haggard voices that suited their aged faces.

They listened carefully for any movement, the smallest sign that tonight would bring what they had long waited for.

Leaves rustled in the distance, followed by the sharp snap of a twig.

Hurry, he’s coming! Bring the oil!

They placed the pan with the oil on the fire and soon a strange earthy aroma melded with the warmth from the fire. The rustling in the woods was coming closer. Even the fire seemed to quiver with anticipation.

Remember, he doesn’t know. It is not for us to tell him.

Shhh, he’s here.

The women’s knowing eyes looked at last on the face they had seen only in their visions…the frightened, dirty face of the boy who stumbled out of the woods.

Bedtime stories: about a girl


Once upon a time there was a girl.

I know, I know, no one wants to hear another story about a girl. All the stories that could possibly be imagined, have been, until some psycho like Jodi arias comes along with an especially gruesome twist, but never the less, I’m a girl, and like all the other stupid bitches, Who go off doing their self-absorbed shit, I’m writing it.

This girl believed in love. This writer isn’t sure.

One day the girl received a letter saying her long lost love was returning. She excitedly got ready and started tidying her home. She wanted everything to be right, perfect.

When her love returned, at first things seemed well, but soon the arguments started. She knew she needed to do more, and be more of a good love, for the feeling of love to stay strong. She tried. She could be better. More thoughtful. Less moody. Happier. She tried. She worked. She learned.

The writer watched.

As the household got more under control, and as thing began to flow more smoothly. Life did become happier and still manageable. Love was kind of shelved during this time of transition, and when the time came to reexamine the feeling, it was still there, although through the process the girl had learned that love is not free.

Love is forged between endurance and sacrifice. It is bathed in pain and bears many battle scars. It is not a commitment to be made lightly, nor an adventure to go on with improper preparation. Love is synonymous with pain. Love should be revered, and love should be feared.

Wise women would keep that in mind.

This writer will.

goodnight , sleep tight.