tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9496274781921979292024-02-07T20:06:27.145+08:00rettorically speakingAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-39846717998469804512013-03-30T00:16:00.002+08:002013-03-30T00:16:26.263+08:00Are you doing okay?
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-13979318863105686652013-02-12T14:35:00.001+08:002013-02-12T14:35:55.589+08:00Butterflies have the best secrets. She cupped his face in her hands like it were a butterfly, or a secret, carefully keeping him from all the harm that wasn't there.
An indulgent secret she wanted just for herself, he was her last bottle before the bar ran dry.
But a butterfly must fly, and secrets are best when they're shared, she decided.
Nothing's real unless you throw it up to the sky right before you've sucked the life out Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-58185777839843341062012-12-13T21:51:00.001+08:002012-12-14T11:04:32.043+08:0025 Milestones Before 25<!--[if gte mso 9]>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-15916727378014893732012-10-31T23:57:00.000+08:002012-11-01T00:01:32.058+08:00NaNoWriMo Tips for 2012
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-4610665260810767572012-07-29T23:07:00.001+08:002012-07-29T23:08:35.776+08:00Graveyard GriefA short descriptive piece I wrote at a writing workshop today.
Setting: Cemetery
Emotion: Jealousy
Her footsteps draw closer, brittle autumn leaves break beneath her as she wanders, stopping at each new address, her own more temporary than any of ours. Her shadow lands on my doorstep, silhouetting her curves as her saddened eyes come closer. Her fingertips trail the inscriptions on my door as I Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-83964661322186403062012-01-25T01:23:00.002+08:002012-01-25T01:23:52.844+08:00The Preacher's WarningA knock on the door reminds her;She'd almost forgotten this place.A surge of poison defiles her;She was always forgetting the way.
As she wonders and waitsFor this too to pass,She sees no light for eachOf her hearts and souls lost.
The sun sets in a rushAs her fire burns out.And cinders coat her smile To fill the space it once was.
The people stop to watchIn distant disregard,In curious concern, Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-4019188770953999412011-10-28T02:02:00.000+08:002011-10-28T02:02:10.602+08:00The Cat Who Saw
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-90374755248410698882011-09-30T01:21:00.004+08:002011-09-30T01:27:09.736+08:00Fire Eyed GirlThe screaming was coming right at her, full force ahead with brute strength and unavoidable repercussions.
She was quite alone in her room, studying a spot on the ceiling for cracks she only imagined. Most times she felt it was the only place where she was really safe.
In your head, that's where it's safe.
Our faces split the coast in half was playing now. First track, for something new.
 Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-23343216002645776222011-09-09T01:31:00.000+08:002011-09-09T01:31:54.462+08:00I'm not actually married. I'm not actually anything.
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panose-1:2 4Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-72090401283329805912011-09-07T12:52:00.002+08:002011-09-07T12:52:33.732+08:00Why Writers Are The Loneliest People On EarthYou spend so much time creating characters, right down to their favourite colour and band, the scars on their knees, the curl of their hair. One day they leave your pages to continue their fictional lives; this part of their story you don't have the privilege of telling. You realise they've moved on without you. So have all your friends. But you're still here, and more stories are waiting toAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-10458717958623386912011-09-02T02:19:00.001+08:002011-09-02T02:25:21.882+08:00An easy decision.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-26812828597013883322011-08-26T01:19:00.000+08:002011-08-26T01:19:34.282+08:00Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-67012704641234480392011-08-11T11:13:00.004+08:002011-08-12T01:50:08.952+08:00I could forgive you anything
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Fingers tightly locked in conspiracy.
Each digit multiplied,
creating an impenetrable wall
with their sex.
They stole into every nook of her mind,
forming a dark web of deceit.
It was this that kept them alive; it was
this that killed her.
I wrote this about an excel sheet I was working on. I wasn't enjoying it much, and struggling like hell. So I Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-87950547624821108222011-06-02T02:04:00.000+08:002011-06-02T02:04:49.655+08:00as she dilutes her confusionAt times it was as if she didn't have control over her own body or soul, or heart. Even her mind was no longer her own. Dreams and nightmares woven so slyly into her consciousness, nothing was real and nothing was not.
The cat's whiskers need clipping: these and other associated thoughts that arrive with the onset of an unsettled mind in overdrive kept her awake. There was a patch ofAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-19430567427701472242011-05-23T00:46:00.000+08:002011-05-23T00:46:04.777+08:00the uphill descentWhat happens is you have this amazing energy, everything's funny, everything's beautiful, everything's amazing. You can't remember ever not feeling this way, you've always been there, everyone loves to be around you - until something doesn't go your way, and then it can (and will) get ugly. You see a side of yourself that you know didn't come from you. This both frightens and empowers you.
And Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-58687114103884209802011-05-18T12:38:00.000+08:002011-05-18T12:38:00.534+08:00I'm wide awake, it's morningRediscovering my love for Bright Eyes again.
Sometimes it's the furthest thing from the truth.
Most times it's everything I know to be true
and it affects me in a very disconcerting way.
Like this:
So I'm drinking, breathing, writing, singing
Everyday I'm on the clock
My mind races with all my longings
But cant keep up with what I got
Can't think of anything that describes me better at this Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-65881410393757043612011-03-08T12:02:00.001+08:002011-03-08T12:04:29.950+08:00stay with her, bright eyesIt was the sort of laugh that comes from within.
That leaves you breathless and flushed
and sometimes makes your ears hurt.
The sort of laugh that squeezes you tight inside
makes you forget the accompanied solitude of yesterday
and the hollow of the day before.
She was the girl people wondered about.
They thought she was strange
some with concern
others with malice
mostly with amusement - a Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-25244026856396189092011-02-18T21:11:00.000+08:002011-02-18T21:11:41.970+08:00and on the gate read:She didn't know skin could melt.
She did now.
It would only hurt the day after.
But it was nothing compared to how she felt
when she realised
as much as it hurt her, to her very core,
it was nothing
compared to how everyone who loved her would feel.
If they knew.
And all she could do was try to forget.
There was no point asking why.
She had made a hole in everything she was.
Everything she Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-26375643935112074962011-02-14T20:46:00.000+08:002011-02-14T20:46:13.493+08:00She never had an answerThey asked what was going on with her.
She never had an answer.
He kissed her where it hurt, blatant poison from his lips infecting her deepest wounds.
She wanted it to hurt, she couldn't bleed, not like she used to; everything would burn.
She craved the rage of the heat - it melted her skin leaving in its place a scarce reminder of what would never return, what could never be forgotten, but Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-74569330671590803482011-01-08T02:01:00.000+08:002011-01-08T02:01:17.078+08:00it was nothing, reallyI don't care too much for this, she said.
I don't care too much for anything.
A moment of hesitation slipped through her carefully crafted
air of debonaire.
He saw through her.
She woke up the next afternoon
with his hand imprinted on her back; it hurt.
It always did.
He didn't care too much for that.
He didn't care too much for anything.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-34832398541600871372010-12-13T02:01:00.002+08:002010-12-13T02:01:54.785+08:00she screams in colourCan you see words?
Words that make you scream,
scream rainbows from your eyes,
drag daggers through your veins,
and you have to scream, to move, to hurt.
It hurts if you don't; when you don't.
Her words wrapped themselves around him with the tight fit of a fetish, each syllable so beautifully spat, each point perfect, painstakingly misplaced, like art laid bare on the street.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-61087875727978896152010-11-28T02:21:00.001+08:002010-11-28T02:23:11.197+08:00her resume read: I'm still aliveAt sixteen years of age, she was told the truth, she was told. That she shouldn't leave. That she couldn't leave, that she mustn't. She shouldn't leave because no one would ever love her like that.No one could ever love her at all. No one could love her, no one could be with her, no one would want her and no one, understandably, could possibly put up with her.That was seven years ago, Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949627478192197929.post-19533165273643032152010-11-27T17:31:00.001+08:002011-01-08T10:58:41.175+08:00i dare you to careShe struck him hard, he could only laugh.He killed her with his touch. Always when everyone was looking.Laid bare, she knew she deserved him, all he stood for.Everyone knew, he stood for her. It was always hard for her. She was madness, she was lightness, always invisible with a smile. They could never see her reason; her sorrow seeped into their eyes, blinding with fire fuelled by hate.TheyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04167563241388491008noreply@blogger.com0