where the impossible seems three shorts steps to the left, and one giant leap into insanity…
Catatonic whispers said on the bed of death, how the pretty kids lie on their feet, symptoms of a withering hand, upheld not without, a fornicated system, a mirror showing the true face of your insanity, a mirror that’s more like a window, an opening, a hole, somewhere to venture, a perfect place…
He stands and sashays around her, taking another drag on his cigarette. “What would you do to me?” He asks coyly. “WHAT?” She sneers. “What would you do to me, if you were free and had any opportunity?” She stares at him like a cat stares down a foolish bird.
“Please Melvin, whatever she did to you, let us help you, don’t tur….” The explosion the revolver makes interrupts his train of thought, as does the bullet that lodges itself into his skull. He stares silently towards Melvin, as his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish in a bowl.
“Did it hurt?” She asks as she turns to him. “It depends how you look at it, for him,” he says nodding towards his lifeless carcass that lies in front of them. “It hurt a whole lot. But when I say it, I’m talking about life. Death was the greatest...”
The dancing rabbits listen, as the tree of fate lies unforgiven, a disgusting is made, a message sent through a plague, disease and famine, death replaces birth, segmented sections, an ending, a succumbing, ritualistic happenstance, fleeting stares, grizzled words, a handful of hair, blood, dirt, and all things sweet, a favoured journey, a world deceased…
Motionless within the motion, meaningless sex, below the wanting of the need, a wall built to climb, a ride never to be ridden, feelings rotten, a scar from ear to ear, as the lie of an incomplete picture is told through blind eyes, cum on the face of your shame, wipe it across, and spread your sin….
Suffrage on the way down, beast in abundance, and you don’t have that crown, you sat upon your head, a kingdom self-built, a kingdom wasted on the dead, in the wave of decay, you were a putrid mess, falling before your own eyes, a wish in a lie, a dream beneath closed eyes, suffer on your way down, for where you’re going, you won’t have your self-created crown…
Aggressive, passive, like an explosion waiting to ruin itself, like a lie segmented into a shell of misconceptions anew, repeat a choice, build the serpents tail, fracture its spine, meditate my need, festering disease, feed, rescind and receive, as the self-apocalypse has no apology, as I, do not complete me…
“If you want me to help get this psycho off your back, you’ve got to show me you can follow directions without fail. So as a precursor to all that, and as a general rule going forward, while the grown-ups are talking, you’re going to sit there and patiently wait.”
She laughs loudly, “There is no trust to be regained you old fool! For trust to be regained, it needs to be there to begin with! I have never trusted you, and therein lies your problem, so cry a different song father!” She hisses, each word laced with poisonous venom.
K Is Silent k Is SiLeNt K iS siLENT kIsSiLeNt
If you like poetry, short stories, political rantings and/or articles then you have come to the right place.
Poems, Short stories, and more.
Write everyday for 365 days. Fact, fiction and everything in between.
Fan Fiction and Fan Art
so much to say and such little time
A domain for independent writing
Writing in the shadows
By Kel Dayheart
Words of a Wayward Clown
A place for storytelling, poetry, and other wordy things. Come have a read!
The world where the arcane pervades all but rules few
Read on, it's good for the brain.
the genre of true crime is asking for a reinvention. just look at how it's dressed.
Short Stories - Mostly dark ones!
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
I'm Technically a Writer
beautiful thinking
Truths of mine, in which I hope you find yourselves
We're growing... Things in the Well!
