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Literature Text
Once in a harvest moon, a wayward star falls from the sky, causing your vision goes sideways and the grayscale life you've led up to that point erupts into a shower of colors. You stagger to the bar on those nights, the always-empty dive off the road where car crash crosses mark unburied graves, and order a drink. No matter the spirit, it always tastes sweet on your lips, but not as sweet as the girl you always watch but never see in the corner of the bar. A beautiful disaster in a torn dress with glossy blue eyes, the type of girl you end up throwing yourself at, drunkenly stumble into her warm lips. They are a sweet mistake, and she is a sweet mistake, but you are feel too tired and feel too right in her arms to care. You waste away the night, and you are wasted the next day, drunk now from her beauty instead of cheap wine. For she is intoxicating, ravaging, and several times over you wish it to end, but then always your vision goes sideways and the world explodes into fireworks, and you end up throwing yourself at her all over again.
Literature
Self Righteous Suicide
Self Righteous Suicide:
We're sleeping,
In a cold world,
That has long denied the light.
We isolate,
Each other,
As we walk alone at night.
We plot,
Unholy vengeance,
As we dream of endless death,
We hate,
Our reflections,
As we choke away our breath.
We sleep,
And suffer,
Tormented by our dreams.
Alone,
And frightened,
None shall hear our screams.
So sick,
So vengeful,
A taste that is sickly sweet...
Let me end,
This life,
For hope I shall not meet...
"Why should we alone cry, when angels deserve to die?"
-Chen Yuan Wen, 24th February 2012
Literature
Online
"I have a problem."
"You always were a worrier."
"Don't you want to know what it is?"
"Not if it's going to worry me as well."
"That's precisely why you should know it."
"I really think I'll pass."
"But-"
"No."
"…"
"Thank you."
"But…this time it's a really big deal."
"Oh for the love of- All right. All right. You win. What is it?"
"What did you think the first time you met me?"
"That's not a problem, that's a question."
"I know."
"How am I supposed to answer it exactly?"
"I don't know if your mother explained this to you, but all you have to do is open your mouth and words-"
"Shut it, smart ass."
"Then answer the q
Literature
Failure
She was the Thief Girl with no faith and half a heart, and she didn't care if they never ever saw her soul anyway. She was almost content in the half broken life she had created for herself. Her fingers were always drenched in ink, her mind was always preoccupied with her treasure. Words stolen from conversations, from homes, from mouths that didn't need to speak any more.
She found the Lost Boy somewhere in an alley of poetry and a war of lyrics, fighting for his life with a broken piano and a worn tuxedo. She stole him before the bass viols, the gleaming guitars and the thrashing drums could kill him.
He fought with her all the way, telli
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Storms are beautiful disasters too but you don't see people loving them.
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