moulddo you realisethat i've got nothing to live for?i strive to be your angelbut, somehowi simply turn outblackened every timei cannot keep a clean slatei am forever turning over a new leafand pulling up socksthat refuse to stay upand yetyou and iwe do not seem to worki am endlessly tryingto mould myselfinto the shapeof the womanthat you would have me bebut there are stills some crackssome corners that have notquite filled outand i am lefta halfmade personi gave uplong agoin the beliefthat only youcould make me whole.
damed conversationyou and mewe don't fit togetherthere is acataclysmicexpansebetween us nowi wishthat you had notleant overoh so casuallyand saidin analmostmatter-of-factnice-weather-isn't-itway'you are my lifemy heartbeatmy entire mindyou lull me to sleepwhen dreams elude meand you wake mejust in timeto see the sunrisethat reminds mecompletelyof you'
visionsand the spotsand dotsof colourthat appearin my visionfade slowlyonly to reappearwith vigori find it uncannyhow similaryou are tothese freckled partsof my ill sightyou runand jumpand skipwithin my mindand maybeoccasionallyreturn to mydaily routinebut you never stayhow i wish that you would stay
the rewards of religionA week ago to the day, his wife, Gretchen, dropped dead while sieving flour in the kitchen for their daughter's birthday cake.Danette, their angelic duaghter of 24, would never see her birthday; her heart stopped beating while reaching orgasm in the bed of her boyfriend. It would take him nearly half an hour to realise that she was dead, as his own pleasurable finish seemingly wiped his mind clean.Back at home, with his mother's dead body lying on the kitchen floor, flour falling onto her peach and cream coloured apron like soft snow [ which she always had loved ] their heartbreakingly beautiful son, Alois, cried 'Mercy!' before jumping from the treehouse in the back garden. He landing head first on the rake placed strategically on the ground and the spokes punctured his lung. He died a slow and painful death while his friends sat in his dark green treehouse smoking illegal substances. It would take them nearly an hour to question his whereabouts, as they thought that he had gone to
musings 01Every monday morning the man in the blue hat walks past our window. I often wonder whether his hat is glued to his head, as it never blows off, even in the dire weather that we must put up with. I imagine that it is stuck with glue, and that he even sleeps in it, but these are just infantile musings of a girl that is meant to be grown up.I am an adult, or so the law would have you all believe, but I do not feel like one. I brush my teeth in the morning and remember the taste of children's toothpaste. I yearn for that taste. I remember being bathed by my parents at the early age of four. At the time, I never knew that, one day, I would have to wash myself. The realisation came when I was 7, and it ripped my very heart out. Growing up is not very fun.I am still afraid of the monsters under my bed and the creatures that chase me up the stairs faster than my feet can carry me at night. I still worry about whether Barbie is angry that I never managed to buy her the pink tutu that she so d
every single oneThe room is always cold when you go away. It feels as if I'm lying in a frozen block of ice when I'm actually lying in bed. Awake - as usual. You know that I hardly ever sleep even when you're here, but when you go away it's even harder. I'll lie there all night thinking and thinking about where you are, when you will be back and how long I'll have to lie in the cold before I finally fall asleep just when the sun is idly peeking over the horizon.I'm not sure where you've gone this time, but I know that it was me that drove you away. I always know when it's me. Sometimes you leave because of other people who are trying to help us, but are really only ruining the little life that we have created. We've fused together so wonderfully over the years and I don't know how I could ever cope without you.And now, lying in my block of ice and staring at the clock, watching the hands tick around at the slow speed that time prefers, I can remember when I first met you. I had been encouraged to ta