Knowing

Is half the battle,

Right?

I knew

It was coming

My seasonal depression

I did nothing

This year

To protect myself

Against it

Half depressed

As I have been

Anyway

Now

I feel it

Weighing on me

Daring me

To give in

Go under

Disappear

Honestly

I don't know

How I

Will make it

This year

I should

DO SOMETHING

I know that...

But

Alas

I don't

Really

Feel

Like

It

the vision of her

as delicate

as a spring breeze

would remain

priceless

in his heart

even as the light

of the dawn

washed her away

leaving him

with a solitary tear

to remind him

she was real

she was there

she was dear

From a writer's workshop last night. The syllabic form is 1, 2, 3, 4, 10

Why

Do I

Settle for

This madness when

I am worthy of so much more than this

It

May be

True that I

Hide behind my

Past mistakes and sabotage my future

But

I know

There are still

Some redeeming

Qualities that I pass into the world

And

The world

Allows me

To proceed with

Utmost caution, knowing I lack some strength

I

Lack the

Strength to care

At certain times

And cause little implosions in my world

I

Lack the

Strength to hold

Some core values

So that my light gets dimmed by my own hand

I

Lack the

Strength to stand

Against the man

Who snuffs out my life with joy in his eyes.

What if it all goes Right

Instead of Left

Behind

or Up

Side-

Down

in Front

What if it all goes Right

Away

From

There

to Here

What if it all goes Right

Back

In.

I was able to log back in to my account.

Now.

I just have to write something.

Then.

I can explore my ending.

Dear God,

Please make these unending wars stop. Please end the plight of the hungry. And, on a personal note, please end this insufferable writer's block.

I know I should not elevate my petty problem into the league of worldwide catastrophes. But I sit here with nothing to write about. I feel my prose is just drivel. Unremarkable. Just another grain of sand on a beach somewhere. Who would want to read my stuff? This is the pits. Why should I even try to write? Why...?

My bad, God. Sorry for the pity break.

Now, about those wars and that hunger. If you could just...

Maybe if I could write something to my representatives, my friends, anyone. Something that would inspire a solution to problems. Maybe I could...

Thank you, God.

Yours,

Sandlot

I was always afraid of knives. The things they can do to a human body if not handled with care disturbed me to my core, making me shudder at the thought of cutting myself or someone else. But that night I couldn't care less, as my hate for him was far stronger than my fear of any sharp objects.

I had years to fantasize about my revenge, weeks to think if I am really up to it and mere days to plan it. Still, despite such deadline, I managed to come up with a perfect plan. Everything I needed I bought with cash in many different places all around the city. I found out where he would be, where he would go, and I made a route of my own, intersecting with his at the most secluded area. His death was a long time coming, and I would not--could not waste this opportunity.

I waited for him around the corner, my black clothes helping me blend with the shadows. He was right where he was supposed to be, and just as he turned the corner I grabbed him by the shoulder and plunged the blade of my knife deep into his stomach. He tried to scream, but only a choked gasp left his mouth. He tried to fight and even managed to land a few punches, but nothing could stop me at that point. I pulled my knife out and stabbed him again, and again, and again. He fell down on the ground, moaning with pain and clutching his wounds. I moved closer, removed my mask and looked straight into his eyes. I couldn't tell if the terror on his face was from the realization that his life has ended, or from the realization who ended it. I didn't care, I just wanted him to know that it was me who killed him. I wanted him to know why he was lying on the ground with his guts out. I wanted him to know that his death was a consequence of his own actions.

I dropped the knife and put my boot on his stomach. I pressed, hard, and the scream he let out was euphoric. Blood gushed out of the wounds, spilling all over his body and drenching my boots. I asked him if he had any regrets. I asked him if he was sorry. He begged me for mercy. Funny, that. He never listened to me when I begged. I moved closer, put my boot on his head and stomped. I heard a sickening crunch... and then I stomped again.

Then again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again and--

I stopped only when I realized that I was hitting concrete. I stepped back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The night's air was crisp with a slight hint of metal. I counted to three, exhaled and opened my eyes. A mess of mashed bones and flesh was all that was left of his head. I never knew I had that sort of strength in me. What I did know was that I had to leave that alley as soon as possible. Yet, where was one last thing I had to do.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a rope and a red spray can. Usually people try to hide their wrongdoings, but I didn't do anything wrong. He did, he paid for it, and now his headless body would serve as a warning to others like him.

I am not afraid anymore. Not of him, not of others like him, and especially not of knives.

I dreamed

About how I would

Die

Last night.

Hinging right,

Turned me

Towards

The towering hoofs

Of an unyielding bull,

His

Deep lethal charcoal

Storming my mortal gates,

Smothering me

Into a splat human accordion

While I prayed

To God

That He would

Take me to heaven

And that my underwear

Would remain clean

For all eventual

Investigating parties.

The best thing about losing you

I can focus on myself

I can achieve great things

I can do anything

But you know what ?

The worst thing?

I can win or achieve everything

But you

I won't get you ..

I won't be happy

I won't be satisfied

I won't have you