SilentAbyss203

In a moment here, in the next moment they are not. He exhales steadily, little forest spirits flickering in and out of his view. Searching high and low for the little spirits, like will 'o' wisps, just flashing lights which fade away so simply. Exhilaration comes in the pursuit, fatigue comes in the rest. As if the two were chasing each other, neither the rush nor the weariness lingers. It's all temporary, disappearing as the other brushes by. He forgets his own desire to find the spirits, basking in the beauty of the forest. Ah, and next, he spies a butterfly flitting into the undergrowth. It disappears from his sight, but does that m

There was an inherent flaw in his moral compass - they should have known it the moment he smiled and said, "Let's kill him." It was simple to say they would kill him, it was something entirely different for him to draw that blade and stab the man through his head. The child only frowns when the sword is stuck, lodged in the man's skull. "How troublesome." He forces the blade further in, lips twitching upwards when the skull gives. The rest watch mutely when he gives them a satisfied grin. "Done." If he had a moral compass at all, its needle was clearly bent. A kink in his system - so compelling that he killed.

they said not to give up and yet they told us that it would be okay. If one were to think that way, and constantly wallow in self-doubt... How hard would living be? Rather, No, Instead, Tell yourself, You'll try again 'i don't deserve it' 'i don't need this' 'what do you know..?' Questions like that are not what will benefit you so, Don't spend your time on things like that, talk to yourself, maybe you'll find that actually you know already, what you truly want. Don't you? A few more empty lines, even a /blank/ piece of paper can be a masterpiece, Don't be afraid to start, be afraid of not beginning, Touch the brush to this canvas,

At first glance, Large and imposing was the tree, which seemed untouchable. The sun cast its glare on the baked earth, the tree did not yield. Roots, trailing across the land, throwing its branches across the plains The vines which grew, willowy and sweet, as if awaiting trampling, bent in the heat haze, yet the tree became their shelter. From when, was the tree a shelter? Rather than just a implant, embedding itself within, entrenchment and afixation the vines burst into bloom. Far from a mutualistic agreement, thorny fingers digging into cracks and wearing the tree out. Despite the murmured thanks that the breeze rustles out it'

If one wrote, Then the other would reply, In such a form, Patience, Like a tree swaying but steady, Regardless of the winds that blow, Uncertainty – Shakes not the tree’s roots. But from whence did such roots come from? - Through reading, They were liberated, For they found that they were of similar mind in Anxiety and insecurity. Neither was self-assured, Nor either certain of their tumultuous thoughts. So knowing that, Calmed the raging sea. They stepped off the plank without reserve. - From that time came their mutual understanding, A mutual curiosity that both obliged. Warm sincerity that neither vocalise

Oh, I know why the caged bird sings, Even when locked and trapped, A slave, it stills! It sings its screams, The sounds, its trills, So loud and shrill! It screeches its anguish, More piercing with skill! For the caged bird yearns and longs for it, The freedom a mere centimetre away! Forbidden, Just out of reach, So torturous a gloat, The lock will never break. Entrapped and deprived, Its soul is scarred. Its wings are clipped, Its mind will break. A spiral filled with desperation, A panic induced madness. And yet it sings, From deep within, For a dream once foreseen! Hope of a light, One out of a tunnel, A key out of the cage. Stol

The sun shall set, Upon a hill, Cloaked in faded purple flowers, Snow that falls, Blackened –   Bloodied. The burning olive tree, On top of which sat, A single, Lonely, Pure white dove. Remembrance of times forgotten, Just something we used to do, Gaze up at this sky, From which tears would fall. Endlessly, Why wouldn’t it stop? Ouroboros,   It cycles through them all, Speeding past life and death, Morality. It will come, So fast you will never register so. Without pain, There can be no peace, Because Peace is foolish imagination, Is it not? Tell me. What is peace? No war, No pain, No tears. That is w

If emptiness was a volume of helium, Would it mean I was light? Since I was so light, Nearly weightless, Would I be nothing? And if I were helium, Would I be able to help other people float? Where is my balloon, The one who I could help, The one who could help me. - If emptiness was a volume of helium, Would it mean I was fuel? Since I was fuel, Highly flammable in all ways, Would I catch fire? And if I were helium, Where was my spark, From which I would burst into flame. - If I were either, Would it not make me used? Nothing more but a tool.

It rings out, So pure, So clear. It strikes a chord, Deep within my heart. But so silent, It echoes, Deeper so in my soul. It resounds, Here where I stand. It reminds me, Of what I long for, What I can never have, And something, Taken.

Don't be so angry, If there's no time to be happy. Stay sombre and glum, Just like the normal days.