Glass

The glass glitters under the sun, pretty, fragile, oh so delicate. She looks at her reflection, presented clearly to her even amidst the sparkles of fragmented sun rays. She looks. She looks. She looks. The image, it's pretty, it's bright, it's young and happy. It's beautiful, really.

It's not her.

She touches the smooth oval piece, light contact with her index finger. She jerks back. It's not cold but it's not hot either. It's warm. A nice, comforting sort of warmth...like snuggling up under blankets when the night is chilly...like a hug when your heart feels cold...

It creeps her out.

She stares at it again and the girl on the other side looks back at her with a sincere smile. She moves from left to right, right to left, back and front, jerky quick movements meant to test this weird object. The image moves along with her but her actions are smooth, graceful and you can tell she it is having fun. The picture's grinning, laughing...Happy.

She wants to be that girl.

She stretches her fingers out towards the image again, making swirling patterns on the smooth surface but making sure her long nails don't leave a scratch. She wants to be that girl. She wants it so much.

But it's a hopeless dream.

The girl's trapped, trapped within that other world, the world so far away from her reach. She can see her, she can see her smiling, she can see her whole...but she can't pull her back. That young, happy, little girl...Innocent, grinning, full of life....She's not gone. No. But she's never going to return either. The glass isn't a cage - oh how she wished the child was trapped within such a fragile thing - the glass is just to remind her of what had been and how all that had been lost. It was to remind her, it was to hurt her, it was to make her long for the impossible just to realise that it was never going to happen, that it was just that, absolutely impossible.

She lifts the mirror off the grass.

And as much as it looked so close...her bony fingers stroke the silvery glass once again....she'll never reach it. Because the girl's trapped and even if she tries, they'll grab her and wrench her back. Jagged cuts on her forehead and purple bruises splattered over her thin legs...They'll pull her back. She knows that. She knows she'll never reach it.

Crack.


Blood stains don't matter when your shirt's already crimson and when your heart had long been punctured, blood trickling out like a stream in hell. She looks at her hands and wipes the liquid off by rubbing her palms against her tattered jeans. The glass is in pieces and she bends forward, looking for her reflection. It's a distorted image, broken and messed up, spots of blood decorating the edges.

Now that, that's her.

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Writing prompts for above given by AJ, Cheeze, Pigeon & Storm. Much thanks :D (Innocence, reflection, disintegrated and mirror)

Broken.

After reading the suicide stories Storm and Cheese wrote (purely fictional, by the way), I was inspired to write one of my own.

She's always been broken. Born broken, struggled through life, thrown on the crimson floor, permanently fractured. A million scattered little pieces. Insignificant. Ignored. Worthless. No one cared. When they saw her (provided they even noticed) they just turned their heads and walked away. No one gave a damn to those little specks on the floor, unless they were in the mood to crush something, in the mood for a laugh. She was nothing. Her screams, her cries...Nothing.

She's always been different. Some part of her must have broke, got lost and never returned. Impossible to find? Or maybe it was never there from the start. It wouldn't surprise her. She was born broken, remember? Not whole. Different. Hurting. A black spot on a beautiful rainbow painting, something that was never meant to be there but oops, I made a mistake and ended up there anyway. They despised her, they wanted her out. She wanted out, too. She knows she doesn't belong here, doesn't belong anywhere really...Though the shadows do seem comforting sometimes. They wave at her and she reaches out for their cold embraces.

She's always been hated. They stabbed her with painful words, they burned her with their loathing, they laughed at her pathetic being as they cracked it beyond known limits. They wrenched hope away from her pathetic grasp and twisted her world into a dark, cold one. But it's not all that cruel. I mean, they only opened her blind eyes to the truth. That she shouldn't be there. That she shouldn't have lived. That all of it was so, so wrong. They're not the only ones who hate her, really. She despises her broken being with a passion, a passion fueled by heartless creatures. But those creatures weren't broken now, were they? No, they were whole. They had that sort of perfection that life refused to give her.

Life. Life was unfair. Life was cruel. Life was-

She hated it. She just hated it. Hated it all.

So she gave up on it. A knife, a pool of blood and a letter addressed to no one. A blank letter, actually. Because she owed no one an apology and she loved no one. No one loved her. No one was going to miss her. No one gave a damn about her, honestly.

So she lies there, clothes stained crimson, waiting for the darkness to claim her broken soul.

Sempiternal

When I started writing this, I had no idea what I would be writing about. I just listened to Together Again by Evanescence and let the words that wanted to be written, be written. This was really based on the music of that song. Go listen to it. It's amazing.


Oh and the title? I recently learned that word and immediately liked it. It means eternal & unchanging...


---




The darkness. It extends its cold fingers. Grabbing. Snatching. Whispers of smoke swirl around her, looking for a way inside her, to steal her soul, her essence. She stares.


There's a small, flickering light in the distance. Flicker. Flicker. She steps towards it. It disappears. The smoke, it twists and turns, engulfing her. Silent screams.


The world, it turns darker. Darker than dark. Yet there's this sense of calmness in the centre of this fear. Something telling her its all a dream, to open her eyes, to face the truth.


She does. She reaches out, her hands pushing against the ghostly swirls that lack weight but have mysterious power over her, pulling her into a sense of nothingness. She fights. She yearns to escape this place. Eerie. Ghostly. Calm.


She wakes up in a grey world. No sun, no people. There's no light yet she can see. Her black dress flutters in the wind. There shouldn't be wind.


She walks forward and the world seems to move with her. It's a blur and her eyes force themselves close. Soothing darkness. And then there's a splatter of red behind her eyelids. She knows not how it happened.


She opens them again. Same place. But now with shadows. Scary shadows. They wave at her. She runs.


Run. Flee. Get home. She wants to escape but the world is swirling along with her movement. Spots of red appearing in this blurred image as shadows eat up the edges. She runs. She runs.


A ghostly hand extends itself to her. She grabs it with little thought and is pulled into darkness. Again. Again. Again. It's not going to end. It's never going to end.


Cold. So cold. And then she hears it. The song of the dead. Soft, soothing. Eerie, disturbing. The hand pulls her forward and she doesn't understand but she wants to follow it. She wants it all to end. To end. To end. To end.


It fills her ears, the song, the melody. She finds herself floating, this hand supporting her back. She yearns to fall, knows not what's below, yearns to fall. Fall. Fall. Fall...


Her eyes close. The hand covers them.


It's never going to end.

Catch me?

It's happening. All over again.
Repeating, repeating itself.
You weren't satisfied with
one bro
-ken heart.
So now you're out for mine.
And I'm falling, falling
Hard.
And when I smash into rock bottom
Damn it's going to hurt.
But I'm still falling
Falling
           falling
                     falling
Waiting for that loud
Thud.
Waiting for that burst of
Pain.
To knock me back into my senses.
The senses numbed by
your cold actions
That still spark warmth within me...
Because truth and love?
They don't come together.
No. Not this 'love'.

It's like the South pole
and the North pole.
Far
Far
apart
But each as cold as the other.
Freezing.
Numb.
Despicable.
(I hate it.)

I saw what you did to her,
you know.
Saw you toy with her
Wrapped around your little finger
Smile, laugh, joke,
XOXO, hug, kiss, cuddle
Trapped.
Slave to you.
No way out.
Because then all she wanted,
Needed was you.
Crawling to you like you're
water in a desert
Cool liquid to spark survival
When you really were the
hot, ball of flames
High up in the sky
Burning her, killing her
Playing her, breaking her,
While staying oh so
Far
Far
Away.
Distance from both hearts
Like that of truth and love.
Well, that 'love'.

But what does it matter?
What if I know all this?
because it doesn't mean anything.
You've already got me hooked.
But you don't need to pull me in.
Because I'm already falling,
falling,
           falling,
                      falling,


Thud.

B ro ke n.

And I see your silhouette,
strolling calmly away
from the scattered pieces.

Pain.

Please give feedback. Thanks much.

Writing Quotes I Love

Apparently, I should be doing "better" things like tackling my mountain of homework so instead of writing today, I shall instead post other people's quotes on writing. Yay.

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.  ~Ray Bradbury. 

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.  ~Anaïs Nin. 

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.  ~E.L. Doctorow

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.  ~Richard Wright,American Hunger, 1977

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.  ~Vladimir Nabakov

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.  ~William Wordsworth

Ink and paper are sometimes passionate lovers, oftentimes brother and sister, and occasionally mortal enemies.  ~Terri Guillemets

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air.  All I must do is find it, and copy it.  ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895

A writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer.  ~Karl Kraus

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen.  But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can.  ~Samuel Lover, Handy Andy, 1842 That's why I usually have a pen in my pocket...and a clean hand to write on.

Do not put statements in the negative form.
And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
De-accession euphemisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
~William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"  

Be obscure clearly.  ~E.B. White 

Every writer I know has trouble writing.  ~Joseph Heller

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.  ~Lord Byron

Write your first draft with your heart.  Re-write with your head.  ~From the movieFinding Forrester

I could go on and on but I'm not sure you enjoy these as much as I do.

Mummy

The meaning behind this story can also be applied to your dad. Or even your grandparents. Actually, any family member who really loves you and who you were once close to but left behind as you became a teenager. I think it's really sad when that happens... 

"I love you mummy."
"I love you too. Sweet dreams."
And she stays there, sitting at the edge of the pink bed (eyes tired, work undone) for an hour just to watch her daughter fall asleep and to act as comfort for the dear girl afraid of the monsters lurking in the dark.

"What about the presentation you've been working on?"
"It's her first day of school. Sorry."
And on that day, she's enthusiastically snapping pictures of her daughter clad in freshly-pressed uniform while the media snap pictures of a proud guy taking credit for her year's work.

"Oh! The movie's out!"
"Want me to take you?"
And it hurts when she hears that her group of friends had already made plans. She hides the two premiere tickets she bought because she knows what her daughter would rather do that Sunday. Two days later, she watches the movie alone.

"Oh look! It's that guy you like."
"Please, mum. Just let go of my hand already and pretend you don't know me."
She lets go, somewhat shocked and her daughter storms off, making sure she walks at least 5 metres away from her. Nowadays, that's the minimum distance between them. And between their hearts.

"No. You're not going to the party, it's too expensive."
"I hate you! Why are you always like that?"
She closes her eyes as the bedroom door is slammed shut. It's not like she had money. (She stares at the letter from her boss. Too many leaves taken. And it's not like she could adjust the timings of her daughter's school activities either. Fired. )

"Do you need help?"
"Just freaking leave me alone!"
She longs for the days when her company was wanted, needed and begged for. When the girl would cry just to get her attention. When she would hug her after school. When she would wish her "good night" before falling asleep instead of making her wait fruitlessly in the other room, wondering when her daughter would burst in to do so.

"Uh. I got you a card."
"Thank you."
No cake. No present. Just a flimsy piece of paper with a few scribbled words and another forgotten birthday. But it was better than nothing. Or at least that's what she tells herself as she pulls out a smile and hugs her grimacing daughter who attempts not to squirm.

 "Stop it!"
 "You don't control my life!"
The horrible fights. The exhausting nights. She wishes they would just end. What happened to that sweet little girl?

"We might have to move."
"What? Why are you always ruining my life?"
Why are you always blaming things on me?

"I'm moving out to John's place."
"Oh."
That's all she can say. She knows her daughter's grown up now but it just doesn't seem fair. She never got to let that princess-tiara girl go. Instead, her tiny daughter was forced out of her grip. Snatched away just too fast by reality.

"When was the last time she visited you?"
"I don't know."
One old lady in one lonely old house. She's forgotten what laughter sounds like. Ironic considering how twenty years ago, high-pitched childish laughter was all that had ever echoed through the house.

"Your mother loved you."
"I loved her too. Just forgot to show it."
The graveyard is cold. So cold.

This is rather simple. Simple story, simple language. But I hope the intention is clear.
How can you not be ashamed for doing all this to your parents?

Writing about writing

She sits there, still, fingers lingering over the keyboard, the keyboard that pleads for that special connection between key and finger tip which would lead to the wondrous expression of creativity and imagination.

But she just sits there.

The growing need to write something meaningful slowly devours her soul as she sprawls out on the desk, head in hands, thinking, groaning, moaning, dying. Dying. She's quite sure her life is seeping through her fingers right now. She has to write. She has to write!

But she just sits there.

Her mind, the place she always trusted to be filled to the brim with colourful thoughts that gleefully flit around and adorable plot bunnies that hop from base to ceiling to ground again...It was empty, blank, only sign of "life" the littered remains of dead ideas...or those so ancient Death should have long before claimed their souls. She couldn't use those. They were pathetic. 

So she just sits there.

There were thousands of things in her world she could use...So why did it seem so bleak? Why was nothing attracting her now? Why did everything look too horrible for the successful transition from idea to written words? 

Why was she just sitting there?

Was it because of her boring life? She admits that she hates the routine-wake up, go to school, sleep-and every Monday when she opens her sleepy eyes, the only thought in her mind is "What the freak am I doing with my life?" And the answer irritates her. She was supposed to learn in school to get a good job later and get money and then live a "good life" and grow old and retire and die. That was her life. That was what she was doing with her life. And that was utterly depressing. She hated it and so...she wrote. She escaped to worlds of her own where life was adventure and action and love and it didn't end with you wondering why you had wasted your chance at excitement in school or at the office. But if this was true (And she knew it was) then why was she unable to write now since life was being extremely boring?

Why was she still just sitting there?

Her computer screen glared at her and the keyboard screamed, demanding for her to type on it. But what in the world could she write about? Love? (Over-rated) Adventure? (Too long) Angst? (Depressing) Mystery? (Tiring) What? What? What? She had a freaking History lesson to pay attention to (Honestly, the teacher had been droning on about it for about half an hour already while she suffered from her own inner turmoil.) and a debate to prepare for. She needed to think of something, write about it and she would finally be free! And that need to write would stop nibbling at her soul. (She knows she stated previously it was devouring her soul but it reached its limit and got full. So it chose to nibble.)

But wha-

Writing. That's it! Well, technically it's the inability to write but it was an idea nonetheless. She could write about writing! Yes! Yes! Yes! Victory was hers!

And so she proceeded to type the prose out, just sitting there, typing, smiling...

And knowing the ending's probably going to suck but not really caring.

Humans 101

You're a human. You were born a human. You look like a human. You are a human. And hence, you must care about nothing and be unbelievably stupid. However, as much as it is by unofficial rule that you be incredibly foolish and, well, fool around with absolute retarded-ness, there are strict guidelines you must adhere to. Makes no sense? Welcome to the world, my friend. 

First of all, humans have hardly any mind of their own. Apparently, we were given the gift of thought but of course, someone decided to leave that gift to rot in the back of his mind and everyone followed him because it was just too easy to forget what differentiates us from the "lesser beings". You see, although we can think, we don't think. Isn't it too tiring, you know, to actually reflect on your actions, to give a damn about how much it hurts when you stick that Nike into someone else's face? All you have to do is hear the laughing around you from the idiots you call friends and immediately just deduce that 'bullying = good' and do it all over again. What about that bespectacled boy in the corner of the class who did nothing wrong but who everyone's always teasing? The one who sits alone at Recess, the empty chairs his only company? The one you see nothing wrong about? Well, of course if everybody else is alienating him, then you have to do the same, don't you ? Don't worry if you can't think of an insult because if you just pay a bit of attention to all the gossip around you, to what those "popular" dudes say about him, you're bound to hear something nasty which you can just repeat later. What if they realise you're just copying what they said? Well, humans do that all the time, regardless of whether they understand it at all. Oh and don't forget this. When some random, balding guy with a tie comes along, saying he can make a change, saying he can make your life better blah blah blah? As a human, you have no right to question his speeches (provided you even listened) and you just go along with him if everybody else is. Humans don't think. Remember that. Don't question whoever put on that  tag with "leader" on it even if the word looks like it was scribbled on by a three-year-old with severed thumbs. Nope. That would be so un-human-like.

Another thing about humans is that we are selfish little beings with black holes where our hearts should be. Well, we are supposed to have consciences but most people just throw it to the ground, stamp on it and then stab it if it so much as lets out a whimper. We don't care about anything. We don't care if taking the last cookie means another starving child attempting to hold on to life with his frail, tiny grasp, we don't care if refusing to yield means black eyes for everybody or broken arms or gun wounds or bloody death (because seriously, what is there to care about disappearing from this world to be lost forever in the endless shadows?). We don't care about the well-being of anyone around us except ourselves. We don't care if people out there are creating bombs using nuclear power that could wipe out mass amounts of innocent children and we don't care if wasting energy is going to lead to Global Whatever and kill us all and end all possibilities of a future generation. We don't care about using that tiny amount of effort to flick off a switch as we leave a room though we indeed give some thought to running that mile from the position in front of the television to the kitchen to the room with the iPod and then searching everywhere for that phone charger. We don't care that wasting energy might lead to natural disasters-floods with the drowning children and their agonized silent screams, droughts with the burning heat that treats the people as play toys for the sadistic toddler, anything that would give pain the "go" sign and send it hunting others down. We don't care. Need I repeat that again?

Last but definitely not the least, humans are suicidal. Do you think not caring about anything would do you any good? Especially if it's bullying and being mean and war and Global Warming? Of course not! But it is part of being a human being, this not-caring-so-that-I-would-die-soon way of thinking. We let Global Warming continue because that would mean the end of the world as we know it and don't we all just love to die? We follow foolish, incapable nitwits and address them as our "rulers" because they'll probably send you off to meaningless war every 3 seconds and wouldn't that be an awesome death sentence? Don't we just love the pain and the infinite darkness and the sorrowful tears of our loved ones? The bloodshed and the explosions and the severed flesh and destruction? The pull of all that we have known to exist into that bony grip of the Grim Reaper? The end to all the things we love and treasure with our hearts? Yes, we want that. Because we're human and we don't care about anything. Not others, not us, not logic. Nothing.

Doesn't make sense? Good. That means you're human.

Im here.

(Haiku)

Special snowflake, flits
Downwards,  downwards, cold white snow...
Disappears from sight.

Snowflakes. Each one is unique. But sometimes you just get lost in the crowd and no one can see you. No one can hear you.

Read {between} the lines

Dear Jonathan,

{I wish I could still use “dear” on you even when I’m not writing a letter.}

I’m just going to get to the point.

{Because if I don’t, the next generation won’t get to know what “trees” are...And even if I let my pen catch a glimpse of my heart and express all these feelings in written words on paper, it won’t be enough.}

You broke up with me.

{After cheating on me.}

Even though I already somewhat knew this was going to happen, to say I am perfectly fine right now would be a lie.

{Just like everything you ever said were.}

I’ve been crying. A lot.

{I'm running out of tears, really, because I’m slowly realising that our pathetic relationship was hopeless from the very start.} 

In fact, I find it hard to just get out of the house because when I hear the laughter of young  children or see a group of teens hanging out and having fun, my legs wobble and I just want to go back to the darkness of my room where there is no happiness I need to miss, no happiness around me that makes my aching heart feel empty and long for something that isn’t there anymore.

{I’m starting to take comfort in the shadows, the locked doors...and maybe sometimes that penknife lying innocently on my table. }

I really loved you.

{And I still do. Because my heart is not only blind but stupid.}

And when you told me “it was time to move on”,

{I know you meant for yourself  to “move on to Clara’s bed” but where did you say I’ll move on to again? Because I’ve lost all direction and I can't see the next destination anymore. }

I would have done anything if it could make you take your words back.

{For you to just say “I love you. I don’t want to leave you.” because another lie won’t hurt. Not as much as the truth.}

I don’t want to leave you. I really don’t. I know I have no choice if you’ve made up your mind but I’ll like to remind you of this.

{Because I think you might have forgotten. Or just not bothered to paid attention.}

Remember that rainy day when I forgot to bring an umbrella and I was drenched? The day you were coming home from an errand and you spotted my lone figure in the distance, dragging my exhausted,wet feet along the tarmac, shivering? Remember how you dashed across, wrapped your warm arms around me and sheltered me with your tiny umbrella even though you were getting wet?

{I know you’ve tossed it to the back of your mind along with all the other “trash”. But remember. Please.}

That was one of the best days of my life.

{Even if you don’t care.}

Because that was one of the only times you showed that you cared for me.

{Among all the other times you did not.}

I’ll always remember that day. It symbolises the start of some absolutely wonderful memories with you.

{And a whole lot of painful ones.}

I’ll miss you.

{Every freaking day of my freaking life.}

From,

Annabelle.

{Because I can’t use “Love, Anna.” anymore. You stole those words away from me. Along with anything that makes me smile.}

Unbreakable

This involves lots of metaphors and can be interpreted in more than one way.

It's killing me.

My fist smashes against the wall. Like a tiny fly that hits a window, I forget how insignificant this force is towards its sturdy frame because all I see is my desired place on the other side. I hear a small crack as my fists make hard contact with it again for I refuse to give up, refuse to give in. It hurts, sure, and blood trickles down my knuckles and drips downwards, staining the white floor which support prevented me from falling down into the abyss. Unlike you ever did.

I don't know why I try, really, when all you do is sit on the other side, slumped against the wall, snoring, daydreaming, anything but actually being bothered about the situation. It's not a problem to you, not something that can be solved with enough effort, apparently not something that affects you. It's just a part of your life you don't give a damn about.

Screaming, I punch the cement bricks, crying out for it to just break. All I want to do is get to the other side. The cold, black wall stares back at me heartlessly and I think I hear a bitter laugh at the back of my mind, mocking me for my inability to cause just a crack in its invincible being. I refrain from breaking down, no matter how tempting it is.

My arms are tired, aching, and I just want to sit down and give up but I don't want to be like you- just lazing there, wishing for the wall to fall but not doing anything to make it happen. Maybe you don't care about it as much as me. Forget that, you don't care. You'll like it if the wall came crumbling down but until then, you'll just pass the job on to others. To me. You refuse to help but you make a conscious effort to ask everybody else to do so. "Go on. Try." You said. And I suddenly wonder if you were truly just mocking me.

I can't take it anymore. The grass here used to be so green, the flowers so beautiful...But all is dead now. I know I never bothered about the expanding wall before but now I do. I have to get to the other side. I know it's somewhat selfish. It's not like I'm going to die here, I'm just going to get bored. I don't want to get bored. And the fact that we're already "friends" but separated by this wall frustrates me.

I scribble a letter and throw it over the wall. The wind carries it up and tosses it over and in a matter of seconds another slip of paper flies down from above and I know the handwriting's yours. I read it and am once again left wondering...are we indeed friends? We've talked so much through this passing of notes but I can't know for sure. These words, do they come from the heart, are they sincere?  How am I to know if this wall refuses to leave and you refuse to help me bring it down? You only acknowledge the   "me" I am when I hold a pen but are you afraid of the "me" in real life? What is it, really, that stops you from helping me tear these bricks down? Or are you not one bit bothered about truly knowing each other and these "notes" are just another past time of yours? The love and care in between each hand-written line...Is it fake?

I want to know. Please, tell me.

I punch the wall again, this time crying out for you but I know you don't hear...or you pretend not to. I want to meet you, the real you and I'm tired of our little games of paper tossing. I want to keep you company not through flimsy slips of paper but with my fingers in between your warm ones or our shoulders against each other. But until you agree to help me, this wall remains unbreakable.

I toss a blank piece of paper over.

Heartless

I don't need this. I don't want this. I didn't ask for this.

Leave me alone. Just leave my thoughts alone, leave my dreams alone, leave my heart alone. Leave. Just leave.

I don't need you to pop up in my mind all the time-on the bus, solving algebra, while reading...it's irritating and childish. Can't you see I need time by myself, away from you? I don't need to connect everything I see to you. The guy on the MRT with the same school uniform, how you cringe when the word "math" is said, how the book character acts exactly like you, or exactly unlike you.

I don't need you to interuppt my sleep, fill my head with bright, meaningless dreams and fantasies when all I want is some darkness to soothe my tired body. I don't need to wake up with a sense of emptiness as my eyes scan the room and you're nowhere to be found. I don't need to feel sad when I realise it was just a dream, not real, never happened.

Most of all, I don't need you to take control over my heart. It's mine. Freaking give it back.

I hate how I can't help it when I tilt my body to find the best position to stare at you across the classroom. I hate how I strain my eyes to catch your relaxed figure at the back as the school bus drives away and you head home. I hate how I'm like a satellite, always floating around you and  having to follow you, even if it means walking a million miles.

I hate how my heart rate increases whenever you're near me, how you snatch my composure and toss it into the nearest bin. I hate how you take away my words, my voice when you're looking in my direction, even if it's to wink at the pretty girl behind me. I hate how you suddenly have control over me when you're around and how you don't know and don't care about that. I hate it. I hate you.

I never needed this. I never wanted this. I never asked for this.

So leave me and my heart alone. It's MY heart.

Introduction

I never actually continue my blogs and keep them alive but this time, I'll make an effort to do so because...well...this blog is different. I shall post my writing pieces on it and attempt to write as frequently as possible. Everything here is my work unless I say otherwise and so it's all copyrighted. Use it and I will sue you or attach an anchor to your neck and throw you into the Atlantic ocean. Not kidding. This is one sure way you'll piss me off and I shan't tolerate it. *narrows eyes*

So yeah. Decided it'll be good to write frequently. I love writing. The problem is making myself START. I know that once I start, I'll enjoy it but sometimes the temptation to just laze around and waste precious time gets to me. So I created this blog, thinking it'll help. Provide constructive critism on my pieces and I'll award you with a virtual cookie.

~cheers

Mush.