O beautiful moon, embalmer me into your comforting deathly embrace

O string of silver stars, Let your ropes control and seize me, so that I may so endlessly dance around this dreamy carousel of my sweetly poisonous desires

O silver moon, So bright and wild
A silver coin that shines with shimmering splendour,

Let the elegant darkness gently collapse into a warm blanket for my languished eyes

O beautiful moon, Close the curtains of reality!! Let me live a life without curtains!

Let me be free, let my heart sing richly in wealthy imagination and splendour. Let my voice be a traveller that tenderly blows across the quiet river

O quiet stream, do not silence the lovely river of tears that gracefully fall from the moon’s eyes,

let it deeply bathe and restore me into my former glory. Cleanse me of my sin and hide me from the oppressive blinding light

Glazing moonlight that shines across the river The silver reflections of quiet wealth wash and whisper across the sandy shore and wipe away the eyes bags that dress my pale face

---

Desperately for the coil and strings of the stars, That those pitiful being did not know they were mere fishes in an ocean The stings of stars were simply the line of a fishing rod, reeling them into the burning soarching flames of reality

Now, the golden coin of a sun gambles and imprisons the fraudulent moon into a prison of fantastical pleasure

Those pitiful being watch as the golden sun condemns and impoverishes them into the reality

She stared at the mirror and her tired eyes lingered heavily at the stranger that looked at her.

Her stranger had tired, weak hair that was strangled into a tight bun. Heavy eye bags cling and pulled her face into a stiff, sickly mess of sadness. She wore a dirty hoody as if it were her second layer of skin.

‘You…’.

A static smile cracked itself onto her dry lips, as she scanned me.

She continued on in a dull desperate monologue

‘Why did you lose me?’

The girl smiled at her stranger.

‘You cannot always look at your scars’

The girl now had strong, healthy hair that blew on the breeze, like a handkerchief whispering and waving goodbye. Her eyes sparkled and shimmered with silent splendour. She still wore hoodies, hoodies would always be a part of her. But now, she had shedded her dirty signature hoody and she would wear a colour combination of hoodies. From red to blue or black to white.

She soon spoke and had her voice came out as a confident assertion, as she exclaimed

‘I can’t always look at my scars and I can’t always look at you my stranger.’

Cloudy ignorance blooms under the turbulent turquoise sky of silver It hangs above my head like an umbrella

Ignorance is bliss A thick skin of grey protected me

Cloudy grey morality blinds my eyes Sometimes it is better for the blind to lead the blind

A bystander I was A bystander to be

It is better to stand with my eyes closed, Then to crawl with my eyes open

He told me that I had the key to his heart , But it seems, as though I had a roommate

He would kiss me with a soft embrace But the tenderness was harsh with reluctant pleasure He promised that he would love me He promised that he would belong to me and me alone He wouldn’t run astray and run into the arms of another

Even under this dull night, He stroke his cigarette and curls it around his lips Perhaps our love was like that? Dangerous, intoxicating but with a crumbling foundation. Even know, I crave his affection but I know I shouldn’t.

The same cigarette, he loved and protected I, too, used to protect But i have moved on

It’s funny, while we were destroying ourselves, I helped build him He was my world And I was his world

But now it seems; The world he I knew was no longer as simple as coin.

If he was never going to love me He would never love anyone else

I promised myself, if he was never going to love me, he would never love anyone again.

I was his world And without me, his world would crumble

Something are better left unheard of rather unseen. The cat was kill for its curiosity and so would I.

---

He shouldn’t have snuck in, he shouldn’t have came to looking for information that he didn’t need. Information is expensive and if he was caught, it would cost him, his life.

The boy slid behind the closet, he was hoping that the door wouldn’t open. However, hope is an unreliable thing. The superintendent slammed open the door.

She had smelled a ‘cat’, a curious one. Or rather, she had smelled a rat, that was lurking, where it shouldn’t be. She was the cat and she was going to end this game of cat and mouse

The Superintendent squinted her eyes in slippery suspicion. In the darkness of the closet, the boy watched in feverish fear. His brows were beaded with sweat and he covered his mouth, in case a gasp escaped his lips.

Soon, the Superintendent gazed directly towards the closet. The boy froze and his bit his lips, he didn’t know if she was staring but he was on edge.

The superintendent grunted and she slammed the door behind her. The boy heaved a sigh of relief, but no sound came out. He was still afraid to make a sound.

The boy lowered his eyes to the ground, as he quietly stumbled out.

When he lifted his gaze, he saw the sinister smirk on the Superintendent. He was shocked by confused anxiety. Didn’t she leave? How she find him?

The Superintendent hid her hands behind her back and she echoed the answers to his thoughts with a small phrase.

‘Found you…’

Unbeknownst to the boy, the superintendent came with a officer. The dulls step where of the officer, being sent away. While she quietly waited behind.

Everyone has a long nose Some longer than others Some shorter than others

Those with the long noses Hope that one day they, that will become a ‘Cinderella’ They hope To twirl around with their elegant clothes And to be partnered with their wine glasses

So they lie Their duplicity is their invitation ticket to the rat race of a ball They boost themselves Their ego squeezes their hands in warm comfort

Everyone wants one thing The fairy godmother

They want a dream to begin all dreams And so their noses grow longer and longer And they cling to Ego

The Pinodrellas’ dreams Begin

(The Anti-Hero’s Monologue)

‘Am I evil?’

To be evil is to live To live is to be evil

We live in a world, Where grey is littered across the starless-sown sky

Where Nothing is white Where Nothing is black

Where Nothing is black Where Nothing is white

In this world, People have angelic smiles, But the smiles don’t reach their eyes It’s hard for a torch of light, to flood the inky-night ocean

People wear halos around their heads But they cannot hide the horns that prick at their crowns

Devils hide behind redemption While Angels dance around the ugly truth

People are walking grey There is no black There is no white Just grey And the greyness stands alone, shining brightly within their hearts

In this world, The question shouldn’t be ‘Am i evil?’

Instead, you must add a ‘How’ before the ‘am’ So, ‘How Am I evil?’

To live is to be evil To be evil is to live

She was desired. Admired. And she inspired

Under the spotlight, her glittering, jewel-like eyes sparkled with cold warmth. Her lips spilled into a somber smile of red. Her autumn hair was dancing in the wind, it seemed to flow behind like a handkerchief, that was waving a tired goodbye.

The cameras flutter with light, as her slow dance begins. Like a glass figurine, Donna twirls and flutters around. She reminded people of a her butterfly. Free, fragile and fancy in delight.

However, every butterfly has a a dark side. Whenever, we look at a butterfly, we don’t think about how they crawled their way up as a caterpillar.

Bella Donna was the butterfly but the woman was just a caterpillar in hiding.

Her ‘butterfly’ wings were poisoned. Creased and desirous.

Under the spotlight, she was admired (tired..)Desired (tiiiirrrreeeed!). And she inspired (Tired!!!)

One brings character to life through imagination. While, the other converts that imagination into visualisation.

(Yh btw, this is not a story but an interaction I would probably have with someone, who could bring my characters to life

‘I have always wanted an artist to design my work.’

‘What kind of style are you interested?’

‘I’m interested in anything really. But have you seen semi-realism and manga art style.’

‘I have…’

‘Well, I’m fine with any art style that truly captures the characters emotions. To be honest, I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a writer. But I believe I have been blessed with the talent of story telling: whether telling my set through comics or series.’

‘Well, I mean do what you want, but I’ll design it!’

(

The doll sat at the sofa and gazed at the Boy.

This Boy bought the doll from the Underground Shop. The shop was massive, and it sold a diverse number of dolls. From short to tall. Big to small.

The Boy adored his doll. He always wanted a doll for himself. One, he could always play around with.

The Boy pulled out two small strings of rope from his pocket. Then, he tied it to the doll’s arms.

He pulled the strings and the doll glided. The doll enjoyed the feeling of soaring, but the doll knew deep down that she was moving to the palm of the boy’s hand.

But there was nothing the doll could do. After all, a doll is meant to be played with.

---

The girl finally landed back on the sofa. The boy didn’t remove the strings because after all, she was his, as he had bought her from the Human shop