Something with warm paws stepped on my forehead last night. A cat? I went downstairs and counted cats as they came in. Two cats came in, so it wasn't a cat. I sat them down for a chat.
"Do you two realize that there is a mouse in the house?"
"Feed us our kibble," they said.
I woke up the dog for a talk.
"There's mouse in the house," I said.
"Did you speak to the cats?"
"I spoke to the cats," I said.
"And what did they say?"
"That's not the point."
"What's the point?" asked the dog.
"Where were you last night? You're the guard of the house."
"I don't guard against mice. That's the job of a cat."
"But had you been by the bed," I cou
04093 | Worth: Alexander Edward James
That is how the world sees me.
Nothing but a number and a name.
Grades. Qualifications. Pieces of paper. I am just a statistic.
I'm like a bullet in a hail of bombshells.
Not even a dot on the radar.
One in six and a half billion; I am just a statistic.
Just one person. Just one life.
Does it really matter?
Another worthy sacrifice on the altar of freedom; I am just a statistic.
Did you hear about the boy sent to fight?
He whimpered for his mother at boot camp.
Taken away, to a place he didn't know.
Captured and tied to a chair. Starved for days.
Tortured, beaten. Raped and murdered on natio
Man has always puzzled me. He is an entity as animal as any, and yet so unlike any other; a perverse union of insatiable bloodlust and impeccable civility. He speaks of peace whilst declaring war, and of love in the throes of hatred, yet He does so only to justify His actions. He is a superior creature, one who would deign to speak to "lesser beings" only to promote His own fallacious ideals. His concepts of chivalry, of nobility and of morality are His and His alone; they exist only if He declares it so. And yet, for all the death He brings, for all the decay which marks His path, He still holds concern for His own life. He knows He is not i
Know my fear, dark and creeping
Never resting never sleeping
From my thoughts, dark and shallow
Tongue tied demons bound in shadow
Hear my voice, never ending
Ever silent shadow bending
Stillness that was there in light
Twists and turns in silent night
Taste my rage, dark and seething
Devoid of sense, devoid of meaning
Stomach turning, insides crawling
Crushing, slashing, tearing, mauling
Feel the pull from deep below me
Gaping jaws, devouring slowly
Hold on to your sin, it's all you've got
Life is fleeting, death is not
I've always been one to believe in parallel worlds, or even worlds within our world. As a child I spent most of my outdoor time either within these worlds or searching for them. Trivial things like the woods around our house became their own worlds, where creatures incapable of being seen by the human eye made their home. I enjoyed searching for them.
However, there is one world within our world that, shockingly, very few people seem to acknowledge. Not even most children, which pains me.
What is this world I speak of, you ask? It is a world that everyone sees, every day, everywhere across the globe. Even now, in various parts of the world,
It is for the best (they said).
They meant the fall. But
there is only light when the sky is rent
and I have sold my soul for another attempt
at this -
the chimeric fantasies, psychosis
in the palm of a hand. It has a certain charm
about it that few would understand,
like a clam that's swallowed a pearl
and lets the ancient words uncurl
across its tongue.
My own poetic prophecies didn't turn out so well.
I drunk a whole epitaph; my own epoch
that I picked from the pockets of time.
It was a binary kind of silence, acted out
to the knitting of heels to train tracks,
the breaking open of mouths, sealed.
They said the sighs would
The Genetics of Psychology by ohmistermagazine, literature
Literature
The Genetics of Psychology
The older man is tall and imposing, the pudge lining his stomach easily ignored in favor of his demeanor. This man is at once an awful ally and an even worse enemy. Even so, the boy weighs his choices carefully before saying yes.
"I want to teach you, boy," the man says. The boy has noticed the man's obsession with his own voice.
"Teach me what?" You are sixteen, he reminds himself. You are not yet invincible.
"Everything."
"Impossible."
"We shall see."
The boy does not want to see. His vision is fine. He would rather learn to feel. Quickly, however, he learns that feeling is not necessary in a laboratory, because all that goes on
you peel back my seams, like sticky onion layers,
only to find with futility contradiction,
a mess made of addiction and calorie restriction
written perfectly in poetic diction a.k.a. unintelligible
mixed metaphors and metaphysical conceits placed to confuse
those intruders who seek to find the inner workings of my mind
and though I have placed all the barriers, all the walls
where everyone usually just slips and falls you set yourself apart
from the very start by outright slipping your arm around me
and talking about the contradictory nature of my heart
this is when I knew my barriers had found their match
And the stars close their eyes by sirenseranade11, literature
Literature
And the stars close their eyes
The air here is thick and heavy and I feel drunk but I am not. I am tired and lonely and drowning in the dark of another day I cannot force myself to handle. There are hands at my throat and, I swear, the promises I swallowed are making deals with the devil and drilling through my esophagus, escaping my body like the smoke in my lungs.
The sun sets, and somehow, I forget what I'm trying so hard for, anyway.
My bed does not like me anymore, and scoffs at my attempts to sleep, rejecting me in the early hours when the clock sighs 2:14 and the house greets me with familiar creaks. And the fading woman with shaking hands whispers lullabies throu