Abstract writing. A street lamp with a broken frame.
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17 Jun 2008 Cập nhật:
18 Jun 2008
Claimer: Every single word is mine. The idea is mine and the thoughts are mine.
Author's Notes: Grammar mistakes are prominent. Written July 2007.
Before the sun would rise again, your thoughts drifted away from where they should be. The lonely streep lamp stood, lit up the night, allumniscing its surroundings in a gray hue.
The smell of wandering, crisped in the air. Below you, the steps spiraled downwards, as if calling out an invitation.
It invited you to walk, to run, to hide, to go – somewhere faraway.
They were tempting, a will, a dare, but nonetheless, you stayed.
Your slackened skin shed itself its own color, and as much as you didn’t want it to, it shyed you away from daunting eyes and haunting yells.
The dress crumpled beneath your fingers, unwrinkled, then wrinkled. Your hands shook as they found past the hems, onto your knees. They pulled, they clawed, rubbed, as each shaky breath fell in rhythm.
You bit your tongue.
You held your cries.
You choked your sobs.
Unheard of and unwanted of. A heart throb that only beats inside, never to make a noise or emit a sound.
Strands of hair matted your face. Your eyes hazy, your voice gone.
It was hard. Hard to feel and hard to touch.
Warmthness is welcomed. They say.
Warmthness exists in dreams. You say.
A wanting, yearning, trapped in your mind. Like a caged demon, it was guarded. Locked and sealed, forced to be blind.
It brings nothing, only a longing that’s disarrayed.
Specks of colors come and go, like the breezes. They stained your thoughts, they brushed your hair, dried your tears, but they healed nothing.
A facade, a wall of emotions was built, blocking out things that should be taken notice of. It defended and shielded away, barely any steps forward.
For the first time. Maybe it was what you wanted.
Phrases and lines, that was all it saids.
Drowned in them, soaked. You realized they held fakeness and digust. Repulsive. Nevertheless, you still suffocate yourself, denying affections.
Without affections, you’re cold.
You gave up, you withheld. You lost hope, faith.
You needed something else, but that something wasn’t coming easy.
You hugged yourself, shuffled your feet, and smiled. A bitter smile, a taste like poison to kiss. Cracked lips and bloody toes, and suddenly you grinned, you laughed.
Your chest heaved, pained, and you laughed louder. Cheeks a dead rose pink, marred and tainted. You stood and danced.
You ran down the path, whirled and twirled til’ you can’t laugh no more. You hoarsed.
They became wails and screams, but you’re restless.
You past that line, you crossed your limit.
You tripped – then you’re back up.
You hurried, in a rush of haste, unsure of where that will take you. Legs tire, feet dying, you’re still going.
Everthing blurred in black and white.
Blue and green.
Orange and red.
Rainbow and water.
You tripped again, but you’re weak. Palms and elbows, you crawled. You hitched, throat in vain.
It’s not far, you reminded yourself. It’s too far.
Your flesh burned, you sagged against the ground.
It’s not coming. Waste of time.
It’s not coming. You curse yourself.
It’s not coming. You buried your head in your arms.
It’s not coming at all.
The breeze stopped blowing.
A chuckle, and you shivered.
A noise infront of you.
You look up. It’s there.
It’s there, you convinced yourself. It's there.
Unexpectedly, it wrapped your shoulders. Embraced you, pecked your eyelashes. While it does, you gripped tight. Scared of letting go.
The demon escaped, into your soul. And you did nothing to hold it back.
It’s scent. You think. It’s warm.
The street lamp went off.
Capful Of Wind
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