Short stories & poems

There comes a time Where we all doubt ourselves All lose some of our light ,

Where we feel the darkness Become surrounded by it Suffocated by its evil ,

But that darkness That we are so terrified of We don’t have to be It can be a good thing ,

Because just like the night sky The darkness inside all of us Lights stars in us as well .

The mirror stares me down with a face I don’t remember, the face of a disguise, all hidden but my eyes. The mirror stares me down, tries to tell me who I’ve been. They say that it tells lies. They say it’s in my mind.

My mind knows every detail, every part of who I am. The versions of myself that I’ve drawn across my hand. But I don’t know my mind. Or what’s left of it to find—the tattered fabric of my soul, I’ve left in days of old.

Looking at my face, the memories aren’t real. Memories of staring through the things I used to feel. Now I hide from mirrors, mirrors on the walls. But your eyes are mirrors too, and I can’t hide from them, I fall.

Talking with the devil But he doesn’t care that much He likes to see my face Its like his midday brunch so im talking to the devil

Talking with the devil cause he asked will you please he begged me on his knees so im talking to the devil

talking to the devil so he grants me all my wishes i chose him from all the fishes so im talking to the devil

Talking to the Devil So i can get my way then go about my day so im talking to the devil

Talking to the devil Cause he loves me so he doesn’t know it though so im talking to the devil

Talking to the devil ask him if he loves me Says maybe so i listen so im talking to the devil

Talking to the devil ask him if he would oblige he’d do anything for his bride so im talking to the devil

Talking to the devil Wonder does he do Hes says he does so i do too so im talking to the devil

Talking to the devil Asked for way to much But he loves me just as such so im talking to the devil

Talking to the devil but it didnt end as planned and my dreams got slammed so im not talking to the devil

Talking to the devil want him to want me back they tell me no but im talking to the devil

Talking to the devil cause he is like my drug and i am his little bug so i am talking to the devil

Sitting in this desolate room as I think Boredom and exhaustion at my feet I wake in somber of leaving my rest My bed that hugs me like a teddy bear Oh how I wish to stay and wallow in my own filth To pour my eyes out and complain about trivial work School has me stressed and I want to bedridden But, oh, would that be an insult to those who are? I am lucky to have a warm bed and roof over my head I am so lucky to have two loving parents who want to save my pretty little head It tastes sour to relate pretty to myself If that is self hate then I shall cry Cry and weep because that is how pitiful I am

I stare at the ceiling I reach out to it even though I know I cannot reach Not unless I stand up Move! Wake up! Snap out of it! You are not that weak Are you so shameful that you can’t see who you are You are strong and brilliant only as you see fit If you keep in the dark you will never meet the light You will go blind Get up and take those few steps Turn on the light See your hand and you face Look at it and don’t look with grotesque

I open my eyes Staring into space but there is nothing to look at Not until I make it right Make something to see other than your blurred vision That’s it! You lack control You feel that you lack dominance of yourself You lack the confidence “You must take control of your life to have one” That’s what I say now Such realization have gotten me out the bed Gotten me to study what I hate Gave me light where I thought there was only dark

How something, someone perhaps, crafted this, we have no idea. We look forward at the figure, and see ourselves there, too. That’s what all good art is made of: reflection. We see the skin, the limbs, the eyes, the organs. As we look, we touch our arms, our legs, thinking that if this piece of art can have such beauty, we can too. Something seemingly so simple yet infinitely complex stands before us. Responsible for all life, all wars, all love, all emotion: the human body stands as the eighth wonder of the world.

Yet after we leave the exhibit, we forget how special it is again, and we begin to stop taking care of ourselves as if we can all be given another life or two, knowing this body is our only one.

If your hand could reach my heart, what would you do with it?

How would you hold it? What might you do? If my heart, its fate were left just to you

Would it be gentle the touch that you give Might you, could you help me to live

If your hand could reach my heart Would it, could it, be something to start

Would you pull your hand back if I did the same Not the same reasons but others I’d name

Would you keep your grasp light and give with each beat Or tighten your grip until I’m down in defeat

I ask you this now before any more And more to my heart that’s been broken before

So long have I kept my heart under guard It’s time to let go it should not be this hard

If I let your hand reach my heart on this day Might you show me the same but in your own way

If at all we could try oh so slow and together And see what becomes on the road to forever

What manner of love dost Thou possess that findeth me in mine regress,

when I hath trodden o’er the edge and put to flame mine every bridge,

when I hath hidden mine face from Thee and donned mine mask of worldly glee,

and through the valley o’ Despair, to curs’d lands I built mine lair,

what love, sweet Christ, dost Thou possess, that Thou, my Light, to death extends,

that tho’ mine hands, have nothing gained, and all else dies —— Thou love remained?

Castles crusted with diamonds along balconies and doors. Candles glowed through the windows rimmed by lavender trees and glowing green grass. The clouds framed the speared points of the roof.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the crisp air. Deep in the distance I could hear a waterfall thudding against the rocks at the bottom of the bay.

“Payton!”

I loved the way the trees with their thin trunks grew up the mountain side. They looked like flowers in a field, standing out like a spotlight against the grass.

“Payton!”

I could feel the glossy floor of the castle was beneath me, and I could almost hear the birds calling my name in the distance.

“Payton!”

“What, Mom?” I rubbed my eyes.

“It’s time to go!”

My head snapped to the left, gazing into the clock.

8:01.

I’m late!

I ask I pray I do what you want But it seems like you don’t take into account It seems like your using me Just saying soon dear child Isn’t enough anymore It seems your scared But it seems you hate me Can you please talk to me Is all im asking Can you hear me

Weasel boy’s pet rat, a filthy, murderous man, the dog should’ve ate