eyes wide

black room

blank ceiling

mind churning

thoughts swirling—

random stories

ancient memories

worthless thoughts

useless information

anxious apprehension

pointless retrospection

irreconcilable relationships

one-sided conversations

misremembered facts

unanswered prayers

fleeting resolutions

futile aspirations

flashing rage—

endless disruption

disjointed stream

bloodless agony.

can’t sleep.

Another pandemic, this time in 2030. People were just calling it pando now, and it was unlike other viruses as infection was fierce, and instead of the sick being treated they were coralled into internment camps to die. But something else occured, something unexpected, a sub race started to evolve. They were known as trolls those that survived pando, their features becoming twisted with unexplainable flattened noses, and elongation of the ears. Scientists, upon examining subjects found DNA unexplicably altered, with this new virus, like something out of Brothers Grimm fairytales.

I was nine years old when I murdered my friend, Nessie.

She had died fast, her body thrashing on the ground. I stared, awestruck. The only sadness I’d felt was when it was over. Destructive me.

I was ten years old when I killed Finley. He died the same way as Nessie, his body thrashing on the ground, squirming. It was a really interesting sight. And I've kept it a secret, because I'm pretty sure no one would have liked to hear that I had killed two of my good friends.

Finley and Nessie are buried together. I didn’t have that much space for them, because they were... well, they were really big. I used a shovel to sink them into the ground, and then I prayed for them.

I did the same thing when I was eleven to my other friend, Feefee. She died the same way, and I began getting bored of killing. I went out to bury Feefee that day, but then, my dad my stepped outside.

“Athena, will you take out the gar-” he’d started to say, then stopped when he saw me. His eyes grew big.

I was dragging Feefee out onto the lawn. My dad’s eyes grew even larger, if that was even possible, and his eyebrows bended over so much that they crossed. He looked ready to choke, and I couldn’t blame him. Dragging something takes a lot of effort.

“What is that your carrying?” He asked, his eyes now bulging out of his head. He closed his eyes. “Oh God, tell me I’m dreaming, tell me this isn’t real.”

He told me I had a lot to explain. And I did, later. I told him about Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

In my life, I’ve murdered three.

Fish.

___________________________________________________________________

when darkness comes

reflections fade

like the memories

of ghosts

we seek to leave

upon the shore.

we only hope,

they stay above water.

balanced on the line

where ocean meets sand,

where recollection

tiptoes safe above

our demons.

but we can't look back,

because

we still believe nothing

has fallen.

and our escape

seems a lot brighter,

If labeled as an adventure.

when darkness comes.

we escape.

still human.

grateful to forget.

Air raid sirens burst my ears

As fog rolls in

Barren streets whistle in cold air

Left abandoned 

And forgotten

Shop windows gather dust

Foreclosure signs marking bankruptcy 

A ghost town 

Of past memories and neighbors 

Both are gone

In this horrible sickness

Rusty tins cans move along the ground Days of rations gone

And the future unknown 

A bag of bones lays in the corner 

This family didn't have enough 

And everything left

Empty shelves 

Left unstocked

By workers who've fallen ill

By this horrible sickness 

The sick are growing 

And the healthy are shrinking

Less doctors 

And more patients

More bodies 

Than graves 

All those mourning 

Simply cannot

Their loved ones are buried without a word For this sickness must end

We must rise above fear

A horrible, debilitating fear

For we are stronger than anything

Though this brings a new low

We will rise above

Like a phoenix

The ashes will produce beauty 

And life once more

For this sickness must end

Chit chats and gossips,

Friends and foes,

Flites and feign fights,

Friends crying out crush’s name,

It is when we begin to blush.

Desires and dejections,

Envy and enmity,

Lectures and learnings,

Results and Regrets,

Everything in a single place

The School !

#school #contest #challenge

I liked going to school,

first years were like magic

then suddenly it all become tragic.

My little heart in constant agony

my father's first slams mahogany:

"You have one job and you can't do it right!"

my face turned red from crying,

my mothers face is marble,

all this kids point at me,

But now it's all finished,

I'm free swinging from a tree.

#school

the writing process can be hard. I get inspired by odd things often at inconvient times. During serious moments or silent meetings i’ll often laugh about some scene i’m imagining. For example at a really boring, i guess, you’d call it dinner party i found myself penning in all the people around me in a scene. I guess they’ll never invite me again because as i explained the scene to my sister we couldn’t help but break into laughter. Not that quiet type of laughter but the boistorious one that makes people wonder if your laughing at them. It makes people ask questions that you can’t quite answer since the joke is most certainly on them. I live in a family of writers so it’s hard to develop your own process when you’re motivation has been your mom, your sister. You want to be like them but to write you have to find your own voice, become your own person. In writing for me at least there isn’t really a process it’s all about how i feel. Usually, though i turn on some music and get inspired by the melodic words and calming tunes. Nothing is quite as motivating or inspiring than turning on “The National,” and just starting to write something that I know, is going to be amazing. I think for me at least it’s important not to have a process if I did i feel like my writing would be generic and less passionate.

My mind is always floaded with poems so much so that I have to find a way to turn off my mind. My whole world is a story and everything I come in contact with can become a story, a poem, and should I say a song too. I have tons of scrape paper's, envelopes, letters, book's I mean all kinds of books that I use to write in. And who hasn't used toilet paper before because you forget your phone. Not only that I'm obsessed with writing pens as well. Every good writer have to have their writing pens.