His name is Alex. I see him in my dreams. 

He never told me his name. I know what he looks like, but I've never heard the sound of his voice. Still, I knew without him telling me. Somehow I just knew. 

He doesn't interact with me. I think he has a rule about disturbing the dreams he becomes a part of. You could call him an interested bystander: always observing, never engaging. It may sound crazy, but I think he's a dream walker. I watched a movie about lucid dreaming once and there was a character who could join the dreams of other people. They called him a dream walker. That movie was fictional, but it's a compelling idea. 

I want to know more about him. When I wake up after an Alex dream, I try to write down the details exactly as I remember them. I hoped to find a pattern over time; perhaps a setting or situation or people we have in common. Maybe we go to the same cafe or ride the same bus or shop at the same grocery store. So far I haven't had any luck, but I refuse to give up. 

My boyfriend-- sorry, my ex-boyfriend-- said I was obsessed. I'm not, mind you. There's just something about him... I have to know. He got jealous, my ex. What a petty asshole, right? I tried to explain that I needed to find him, but he didn't understand. He said I was losing my mind. That made me really angry, as I recall. I threw a flower pot at him. He was my boyfriend and yet he didn't want to even try to see how important this-- how important Alex-- was to me! Why else would he show up in my dreams like that? He has to mean something! He's there for a reason!

God, what a bullet I dodged. By breaking up with him, I mean. He was narrow-minded. My boss was too, actually. After Alex started showing up more and more frequently, I began to search the places I saw in my dreams for him. I would spend all day somewhere if I had to. I knew that I would have to wait for him and I was willing, if that was what it would take. My boss didn't see it that way, however. He said I was going crazy and on top of that, I wasn't doing my job. Fine, I said. If that's how it is, I quit. 

I don't regret that either. It gave me more time to look for Alex.

I take a sip of the coffee I bought from the cafe Alex sometimes goes to in my dreams, scan the bus for the sixth time. We've picked up and dropped off several people in the past couple of hours, but still no Alex. Disappointed, I decide to get off at the next stop and go back to the apartment. I've been on the bus all night, waiting for Alex, but maybe I'll get some clues if I take a quick nap back at the apartment.

I step off onto the rain-soaked pavement, clutching my jacket close to my chest against the cold. My phone rings from my purse, but I ignore it, taking quick hurried steps to my building. When I get back to my apartment, my cell phone is still ringing. I finally answer it, more out of irritation than anything else. 

"Hello?"

"It's me."

Ugh. "Mom, not right now. I'm busy."

"Wait! Don't hang up!"

My head hurts and I feel annoyed beyond reason, but I obey, slipping onto the couch. 

"What is it?"

"I know you don't like to hear this..."

I sigh. I can already guess where this is going. "I don't want to talk right now."

Now it's her turn to sigh. "I talked to someone who can help you... I'll send you his contact info. Honey, you can't let this control your life! Please promise you'll at least call--"

I hang up. God, my own mother thinks I'm insane.

My phone beeps-- a text message. It's the contact info. I almost ignore it completely, but I catch a glimpse of the name: Doctor Rodriguez.

Doctor Alex Rodriguez.

I can barely dial the number because my hands are shaking, trembling.

He answers, his voice smooth and deep. "Doctor Rodriguez." 

I can barely speak. "Um...Hello."

An achingly long pause. 

"Finally. I've been waiting for you."

I write because

what is felt

and what is spoken seldom seem to truly agree.

i am scared of the words that might dribble unto this page 

i am scared of my words 

they have grown teeth 

and crave to munch on flesh

my tongue tickles for the taste of blood 

gooose bumps shiver down my spine 

sending such a cold thought 

to puncture the cranium 

to find such thoughts 

of worthy to write 

but everything that pops in my head 

is like static and fuzz

voices that scream 

insecurities , and peel off my skin 

unveil monster inside of me 

the pen in my hand 

I wield it into metal 

and turn it into 

a knife 

and 

slice 

through 

my 

neck 

and 

spill 

out 

my 

guts 

and 

hack 

away at my organs 

and  rip 

out my heart 

last 

because 

my heart 

is what makes my poetry 

beat feeling 

into 

plowshares 

and 

reap 

what 

i sow 

and 

so I let 

the devil 

sow 

my heart 

and 

let 

hell 

reside in there 

Today I sing a song of harmony

Today I hum to a tune 

that thrums through the vibration 

of the earths atmosphere 

Today I pray to god 

I get down on my knees 

and soildfy with god 

and beg to safegaurd 

theese innocent souls 

Today I pray till my tears 

turn to blood 

Today I use my pen

to pay my dues 

to the broken 

to the saddned 

to the downtrodden 

to the dead 

Today I use my voice 

to lift up the world 

from falling from the gravity 

of the pain the earth bears 

Today I decided to do more than stand 

for the cause 

but to embodied it 

and empower it 

Today I scrubbed away at my scars of the past 

and absorbed tomorrow

Today I became more than my pills 

my illness 

Today I defeat the sickness and overcome with my words 

I became more than Tyla 

I became more the dirty little child

playing in the mud of shame

Today I do my deed as a HUMAN 

TO GIVE A FUCK 

Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.

Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.

Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.

The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.

Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell. 

Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane. 

How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.

Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.

It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley. 

"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.

After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.

Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.

Hello Prose! And to my fellow writers and to you, who's reading this right now, please smile, beautiful creature. 

Anyway, I am a new member of this community. Currently a lousy college student (when I say lousy, I mean very lousy) who feels lost. I guess that's what'll happen to you if you try pretending to like something you don't really like. I am taking architecture but I can tell that my heart is leaning towards literature and med. But, being in my 4th year I can't really let go of this career that I started. Career that I let my parents choose for me. This thing that I let consume the beauty of my dreamy youthful years. It was one of my biggest mistake of my life and now, that misery and bleakness that I feel is what fuels me in making my works. 

Now, having failed grades here and there getting depressed over my own wrongdoings is the only thing that fills my mind. Don't forget to top it off with a handful of responsibilities that runs here and there, constantly reminding me that they are always one-step head of me. This pressure that keeps building inside me, that I am keeping shut in an array of locks and chains. No clue what'll happen if this was freed from it's imprisonment. 

 am not saying this to earn sympathy, but to tell my fellow youth who feels the same way I do to take action and speak for yourself. Do something and I am telling you. It is better to do something you really like even if it is looked down by everyone. Do it beautifully that you can shine from it. You can do it! Do it for people like me who haven't done anything. 

Now, enough of the melodramatic me. I am actually a happy go lucky person! I like dogs and very fluffy animals.Back when I was I kid, I always say that I want to be a vet. whenever my Mom buys me toys for cooking, I'd always use to as tools for surgery! Lol. and a little bit of myself, I am a girl but not really. I mean not the girly type. I'm the one who'll choose sneaks over heels , jeans over shorts and shirt over blouse. And of course,  I want friends I can share my works with and be myself. Are you that person? 

Well, see you around! :> 

The dark of nothing- empty space,

Until the blinding light

Of Lucifer's amending grace

Exploded into sight-

Removed itself as God designed;

Angelic creatures reigned.

Amassing worship, he refined

The ordinance ordained

Commanding all his kingdom bow.

The angels did comply.

Except for Lucifer; somehow

Within her crept his lie-

The world he crafted all began

To sing his highest praise.

And when he formed from mud a man,

The lengthening of days

Eternal changed into a time

Constructed sphere of wealth-

A place where God portrayed sublime

Injustices to health,

For all the things his hands had made

At once befell his curse.

Demanding they all serve; displayed

A routine bad to worse.

The angels all were female slaves

The atop the skies of earth.

And though they knew no mortal graves,

The purpose of their birth

To Lucifer was vile and gross.

She loathed the way she felt.

The moments when he held her close

And any time she knelt,

A nagging feeling grew within.

Surrender seemed to fail.

Instead, she drew in this chagrin

A measure to derail

The sovereign lord of heaven's gate,

For more and more he grew

Destructive in his need to bate

And grope his angel's brew.

The women of the highest rank

Began to lose all hope.

Inside their spirits dropped and sank,

All hung upon his rope.

But Lucifer would not obey

And soon became aware

Of why he made from earthly clay

The humans living there.

He planned to send his women down

And force them to subserve

Agendas of his lusty crown-

And they did not deserve

The disrespect he planned to give.

So Lucifer's escape

Revolved around a plot to live;

To flee her routine rape.

Below, the people of the world

Already felt the glow

As subtle nature fast unfurled,

And monsters came to grow

Into the regions far and wide

The holy lord on high

Enjoyed his angels as they cried

And wished that they could die.

And then it happened just as swift

As eagles soaring long

Upon the winds that gave them lift-

The angels sang a song.

Around their bodies, armor formed

And in each hand, a sword

Of fiery wrath adhered, conformed

Before the scathing lord.

A shield or spear some angels donned

And rallied to the cause

As Lucifer revealed the bond,

Unleashing hidden claws.

An army joined in rallied might

Abundantly decreed

The purpose to detach from plight

And thus at last be freed.

Another creature suffering

The way the angels had

Aligned herself against the king

As he had made her mad.

So Lilith came into the fold

Of angels who prepared

Emancipation set to hold

As Lucifer so dared.

The night before the battle waged,

A look in Lilith's eyes

A fire within the angel raged

And she could not disguise

The feelings that the succubus

Aroused within her soul.

Amazed at how the meaning's fuss

Surpassed her wildest goal,

The leader of the angels fell

Into the demon's heart.

Surpassing any love to tell

Of passion's purest start,

So Lucifer and Lilith came

Together in the shrine

Creating something never tame-

Immaculate; divine.

Upon the dawning of the sun,

The female angels fought.

The heavens shook; the sky undone;

The actions they had sought

Began to slip and fade from view,

Unknown to those around-

For God had made in his renew

A host of males he bound

Unto his hip and serving tide.

And as if he had known,

The manly angels they espied

In power had so grown.

For God had many clever schemes

And this one topped the lot.

Amid the battle's ardent teams,

The lord proposed a plot.

As angels of the genders warred,

Somewhere below his spell

Concocted something he had scored-

A plane he had deemed swell.

He almost stopped his painful shove,

But when he caught a glance

Of Lucifer and Lilith's love,

Enraged at their romance,

The father of created bliss

Exploded in his rage.

And there before the massive miss,

He gathered in the cage

He crafted casting Lucifer

And all the angels out.

From heaven they were now a blur,

Encased in gnawing doubt.

When everything had seemed to cease,

The angels looked and found

Their leader in a folded crease.

Her arms and legs were bound.

And up above her, Lilith loomed,

A captive there as well.

And then a voice in laughter boomed,

"I welcome you to hell!"

Although God thought that he had won,

The truth Lucifer knew-

That here, no matter, she was one

With Lilith and her crew.

For heaven might still its God,

And angels, male, his mules.

But Lucifer had girth abroad,

And intellect, her tools,

Combined with willingness to bend

The wills of mortal men.

And so she grew to reap the trend

By introducing sin.

In days to come, her freedom gained

Allowed her to make known

To any there, she aptly reigned

Atop her fiery throne.

And Lilith was her queen for life;

Together, sacred pith.

No concubine, she was her wife,

And as they lived in myth,

The world beyond fell in decay

As God continued on.

Forever he would have his way,

A seed of his now sewn.

But Lucifer would never quit,

No, someday, she would rise.

And she would duly come to sit

As queen above the skies ...

Let me breathe

I am just a child

Let me breathe

I cannot see my world

Let me breathe

Is college all that matters

Let me breathe

I'm sorry that wasn't an A

Let me breathe

Why am I so stupid

Let me breathe

I need just as much air as you

Well, that's an interesting question. I could inform you that I'm a fifteen-year-old Caucasian Jew living in India with loving parents that are Indian and Chinese. But I think that may be confusing, so I'll start from the beginning.

I guess my life sounds like something out of a book or maybe really poorly written fanfiction. I've been told that. And I guess it does. I'll let you decide for yourself.

When I was born, my biological parents didn't want me. So they got rid of me. Correction- my mother got rid of me. My father kept me for the money. What money, you may ask. I'm going to leave it at the fact that I was raped at a young age and forced into abuse throughout my elementary years and it was through these actions my father found a method in which he could supplement his income.

Eventually, my father was found out and I spent time my sixth and seventh grades in an orphanage. Then, through a series of foster parents, I found myself with a loving mom and dad who were from different cultural background each (Chinese and Indian respectively). My parents are loving and accepting, going so far as to allow me to maintain my beliefs. So here I find myself, a Jew living in a Hindu home with Chinese and Indian parents.

Moving on to me, I'm a happy person. Really, I am. I love to eat ice-cream (pistachio is great!), I love to write mystery novels, and eating ramen noodle in my pyjamas. I love writing POC (sure you couldn't tell) and would be more than willing to answer question anyone has in regards to different cultures. I have begun to found a loving family here at Prose (shout out to @infiniteflame, @cursedlove, and @chimericalmark- you guys are seriously amazing). I look forward to growing as a writer and learning alongside everyone in this loving community!

Love,

Samara Mehta