“So who’s gonna die today?” I look down at my feet as the roulette wheel spins around and around again. Never ending. Maybe that what I feel because that’s what I want, for time to stop, no… rewind. “Red 13!” The man next to me drops dead, falling into the hands of the old widow, then finally finds his place between between her stilettos and the young boys cleats. Everyone is stoned faced not daring to cry and trying there best to repress there emotions. Anything that will draw attention to them will get us killed. A man on the other side of the room cracks and falls to his hands and knees. I don’t dare look. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Abby cluches my hand as a silent reminder to keep calm and play the game. That’s what the announcer kept yelling after any brutal display of his power. Keep calm and play the god damn game.

Boom They stand all huddled by the door As he steps forward inspecting the crowd Boom Another collapses to the floor They all try there best to not make a sound

The goal is to not make your self a target The goal is to survive But one stands far from it As the two lock eyes

He points the barrel at you Beckoning you to stand It is only the two As she takes his hand

(Sorry if this doesn’t make sense. This poem is based on a book called this is where it ends. I highly recommend reading it!)

In your arms, I found a home In your gaze , I found peace In your presence, I found a tomb To lay with you while we sleep

This is a short poem I wrote a while back that I thought would fit this prompt.

 The mirror displays my flaws for the world to see, the filthy stained mirror that I see clean.
 Our minds forced into our own thoughts of self pity staring into the cloudy mirror that I see clean. 
 The line between critiques and moarning is fogged by the mirror I see clean.

I was lost. Never found It said to me “the lost seek to be found but never venture to find” It left me here not to be found but to find I get up I walk I walk I walk I find one that wait to be found and tell it “the lost seek to be found but never venture to find” It gets up I walk It walks It walks We find ones that wait to be found and tell them “the lost seek to be found but never venture to find” They get up I walk It walks We walk

We find

I was 3 when my mother died so I don’t remember much about her except that before she passed she told me that she would still be with me while I slept and not to worry. After that I would stay up all night talking to the moon as if it was my mom and I liked to think that it was. After about a month or two father wanted to move on and start a new life and for him that was running away from the problem. We moved to Switzerland where there is no night. At least it doesn’t get dark. Yesterday was the first time I saw her in four years. She said she came just to see me. “I missed you” I said through tall my tears. I think she was happy to see me too because it started to rain. I do miss her but that night she told me she would be in the Sun and she said when I feel a warm breeze it was her giving me a hug.

He’s here. “I’m not ready” I faintly mutter. I don’t think I ever will be. I grip dads hand tighter as if death would have to physically pull me down through the hospital floor to get me to get me. “I know honey, I love you” he spits out through his tears. I let go and stare at him with a slight grin as I lay on the bed waiting for the inevitable. A cool breeze gusts through the room as my grin fades. I’m… alone. I freeze when I hear hallow taps echo down the hallway. I sit there frozen. A man with all black attire and equipped with a umbrella he uses as a cane slowly walks into my room and stops a few feet before my bed. Weirdly, I’m not scared. If anything I’m calm. It feels as if this is how it’s supposed to happen. He reaches his long withered hand out toward me. As he reaches his finger out to usher me towards him I can see…bone. “Come” He says in a cold breath. I do as he asks and get up. We walk. I don’t know where but at this moment I don’t care. It.. just feels.. right.

A Interpretive poem by J.R. DeHaan

The crimson display of decay blossoms while the sun rises revealing the crude world that swallows the souls Ruby blends with the fall Soil is the birth of this evil that hides the cruel piece of art The chilled body lays on that frozen soil and waits to become someone’s muse A painting shows the wicked nature of what we call society The last of society is a painting waiting to be And all she did was color outside the lines