racetrack22
The fireplace crackled and popped. I was wrapped in the quilt my mother made me when I was twelve.
The streets are full of color; deliciously bright oranges and apples' ripe juices penetrate the smoke and aroma of the people passing by. A merchant straightens his shirt with his sweaty hands while a female customer bats her eyelashes and plays with his bracelet. The smiles of strangers brighten the sky and thin the fog. The street comes alive and I wander.
Don't, those wrists are too delicate to slit; your neck is too soft to break; your smile is to genuine to ruin with a bullet; your thinking is to brilliant to gas away; you are too perfect, too beautiful, too wonderful, too precious to slip quietly into the depths of an unknown.
You are worth the life you have.
The sticky mess falls from my sandwich and rolls down my wrist. I try to catch it with my tongue but miss. It is deceivingly speedy on its way to the table top. In its wake, the jelly leaves a slimy trail of ooze like one you would find behind a snail, only it's red. Napkins only get stuck.
lean on me when you're not strong. We should be shoulders to cry on, shoulders to lean on, people who need people. We can be that for our friends and they can be that for you. Live in the moments that make life special for you. Know that no matter what happens, no matter how it happens, no matter why it happens, there will always be that one shoulder that you can come to and lean on. There will be that shoulder, from now until eternity.
Take me to the moon, a place full of mystery and new beginnings. A place where I can start over and learn from my mistakes and my failures. Take me somewhere where no one knows my name, my faults, my inaccuracies. Take me somewhere I can be me, reinvented. Take me far far far away. Take me.
eight-legged terrors, nature bug catchers.
Is running a sport? yes.
The life slowly slithers away, smirking at what used to be, leaving the dirty body cold and stale. Rivers of thick crimson blood follow the slime as if being called to better housing, enchanted by the sharp shiny silver, draining what used to be a temple to a mere stagnate warehouse.
Sweat drips from my hairline down my nose: I'm suffocating in the heat, but the dampness cools me. My arms strain and my back stiffens, I pull hard, holding my breathe, praying that the little boy survives. The fall may have broken his leg, but hopefully not his soul. Now I wish it were summer.
load more entries