Useless Words Strung Together to Represent my Emotions
omi5519
I've lost myself again
In the drive to meet expectations
I miss the words comfort
Like soft, fragile magic
That leaves me shaking with it's beauty
Instead there's a blankness
Avoided wtih hours and hours of inactivity
Sleep.
Responsibilty weighs down
Heavy expectation
Keep your secret in
Run a stable house
Ensure your sisters stay ignorant to the mistakes of thier father
Listen to a women I call mother
But honestly, what supriority does she hold over me
Her tears in my strength
Irresponsbile
Selfish
My father just the same.
They're attempts at authority are ridiculous to me.
What supriority?
They're so like my children.
My worlds upside down.

Last Time
omi5519
The last time
I would've never guessed
This would be our last ime

Last kiss, apologetic to broken youth
Last touch, careful, afraid, as if we're breakable
Last word, spoken in whisper, over and over, "We'll be ok. We're not gonna change."
Last time I've trusted.

Over time, aching slow time
I've kept my secrets bundled up close to me
Letting silence blanket my life

Cool metal. Soft Skin.
The last time, would be the final time.
You whispered "I don't love you"
Half hoping, half afraid I would hear

Between the line, cold and angry
Too messed up.
Too much to handle.

Too late for gentle words.
Only abrupt, harsh good byes
Late in the night, was our last time.
Changed forever.

Broken.
Adequacy always untouchable.
Always, never enough.

Bloodred instability locked away.
A heart encased in ice, a mind numbed by the chill.
Winter fell into spring, shifting into summer
And by fall the heart beats slow again

Words held back in plain fear of what they would bring.
But even in controlled silence
Waves of gray consume again, desolate and suffocating

Everything finds its end
Every moment breaths a last time.
Every last time, falls from a moment
Every moment, worth a last time.

Useless Ramblings of a Moody Frustrated Writer
omi5519

I need to get my thoughts out. They drown my mind with uselessness. The pains of being female. I’m moody and I can’t stop crying. I have cramps so bad they go past my stomach, into my back down into my legs. I’m experiencing torrents of anger but no one to get angry at. I can’t get my life right. The wrong words are tumbling out and I don’t have control. I’m so tired. Partly because of my period but partly because I’m so tired. I hate that I can’t finish my homework because I spend my time going back and forth between sleeping and crying for hour.
and hours.
and hours.
“The sweetest sadness in your eyes” What’s so appealing about sadness? Is it the familiarity of it in the empty spaces. The quiet moments.
I’m getting tired of being at this school.
Too loud.
Too crowded.
Too bright.
Too harsh.
Too demanding.
I HATE BEING SO PISSED OFFF.
So, I’m very ready to be done with this moodiness.
It’s really inconvenient.....
I’d write now but there’s still so much on my mind.
Words I can’t say.
I’m so done with this life.
It’s ridiculous.
Ok, maybe I’m just being over emotional again :/
See what mean.... moodiness...inconvenient
Tags:

Revenge
omi5519
They pushed her to this
They had taken away everything from her
Her mother, her father, her life
Everything
They forced her to turn into who she was
As her stepsisters pushed her around
She plotted their demise
As her stepmother beat her
Till she could hardly stand
Then forced her to work till dawn
She plotted her stepmother
Slow, painful, and brutal death
Soon, she would think
Her face covered in cinders
Hands worn , aching bone
Her mind working
Planning, imagining
An upcoming ball
The prince’s ball
Perfect
Her so called family left her behind
With a list of task
She had been prepared for this
Having traded herself for workers
Set off for the ball
First would be embarrassment
A huge display, embarrassing the royals
And her stepsisters
They’d be killed
Her stepmother’s death would follow
First she had to suffer child loss
Grief even deeper than a parentless child
Unfortunately as soon as Cinderella stepped into the room
The prince himself ruined her plans
He grabbed her roughly
And refused to let go
He whisked her away in the gardens
Tore off her clothes
Forced himself inside
She cried but dared not scream
For fear she would be killed
Hurt, angry, and vengeful
She went home
Her step-family unaware of her disastrous night
Soon the prince found her once again
Eager for more of her
She was forced into marriage
And waited patiently to be Queen
Before repaying the world for her agony
She brutally murdered the prince in his sleep
And framed her step-sisters
They were put to death
Her step-mother killing herself for having lost everything
Cinderella ruled over her kingdom cruelly
Killing thousands
Making everyone suffer
Till her last breath
Till her last moment
Killed by her own people
Just as her baby boy popped out
A baby that never even stood a chance

Writing
omi5519

Have you ever stared at the blinking "point of insertion" (yes, I did have Bus. Info Management yesterday) wondering where the hell your creative spirits went? And than you completely forget what you were trying to write about and watch tv?  I think that's when you have to give up denail and admit to yourself that you're stuck. So I'll admit it. I'm stuck. There are writers who crank you a story a year, some who write a million a year, and some who write one book and disapear from the writing bussiness. Does the fact i'm even considering these things make me doomed to fall into the commercial poisonings of the writing company? A writers first novel is the best one. After that (not all the time of coarse but more often than not) they get sucked into writing for someone else, rather than themself. Themself? Did I even spell that write. So I'm stuck, writing-wise. I try to write and it comes out as self-absorbed, moody, emotional, crap that I'm so sickened by I can't even put my name on it. I'm in a weird place in my life. A state of waiting. Holding my breath waiting for something to happen. Good or bad, I'm waiting. Maybe that's why I'm stuck. Maybe I'm too concerned with myself and what I'm producing. Maybe I should just write and not care if it's complete and utter crap. But it's so... unsatisfying to write, and not write to your best. It's there, rumbling inside me. But I can't get it out. Maybe it has to grow. Maybe I've got  something big to write, because these dry spells are often preceded by floods of  writing, word after word, getting closer and closer to the that connection. I don't know what I mean by that connection only that I've found it and I've lost it countless times again and again. My mind is a hopeless, tangled, mess that can't even produce of single word worthy of being written.



Writer's Block: 10 Years From Now
omi5519
Where do you see yourself 10 years from now?

In ten years I imagine I'll be popping out the second of my soon to be eight to sixteen babies. Hopefully I'll be married and still writing everyday. :)

Things Before the war
omi5519

The women in red shanked across the meadow and the belly dancer followed. Flowers cried bloody tears as person after person ended their last beginning. The belly dancer swayed silently behind the women, desperately pushing her mind to places away from the massacre of the innocent. She thought of the day she first met the women.

They had lived in a place that resonated with such wonder and still perfection that during the even the stars and the moon shined their favor from beyond the unseen. Not a soul in market places could have ever seen the darkness creeping on their peaceful existence, farther than the stars but fast and approaching. The belly dancer danced for coins though she didn't need to. She danced for the simple love of dance. A rare occurrence in most places but not here where everything was in such an abundance it was rare for someone to not work for the passion rather than the wealth. The women came up, her long hair flowing neatly down her back, her eyes kind and loving, and a dozen or so children trailing after her. She smiled at the belly dancer and motioned for each of her children to give their coins to the belly dancer. And every day the women returned with her numerous children to fill the belly dancers basket. "It's not necessary" The belly dancer insisted over and over but still the women came every day and filled her basket. Finally, in return of the woman’s generosity, the belly dancer had purchased a beautiful dress, made of the whitest fabric to represent the woman’s pure heart and gave it to the woman. She even bought the children little sweets that calmed a child’s energy to thank the giving family.

The belly dancer was struck with horror when she realized the woman’s dress was the same white one she had given her so long ag. Now, like everything else before the war, the color was just a faded memory, impossible to believe if it hadn’t been true. The belly dancer held back a hurricane of tears and thousand screamed frustration. Instead she continued to silently watch the woman cry her tears and scream her frustrations through death. The belly dancer noticed the women had become so deathly pale in their imprisonment her white skin seemed to mimic the moonlight and her eyes reflected the demons inside her. The memories struck the belly dancer so intense she could have mistaken them for her own.

Through eyes that weren’t hers she saw the woman’s children, beaten by their enemies for slightest whimper of unhappiness, and those that survived the beatings slowly starved to death. She could nearly feel the woman’s last remaining child leaning against his mother, taking his last gasping breath of tainted air while the women could do nothing to prevent it.  

 
The woman in the dirty white dress soaked so fully in blood it was nearly black, closed her eyes and fell back into the field of dead children. “I have avenged my children with the enemies’ blood. Let me rest with them.” The women cut her last strands of life and drifted from the solid earth. The belly dancer, who hadn’t danced since her entire world has been taken hostage and imprisoned by her enemies, sang and stepped in harmony with the earth, begged for redemption for the dead. And with one last sorrowful tune sung out to reach the heavens, the young girl aged beyond her years, in the least bloody uniform, stolen from the enemy’s innocent walked across all that had been destroyed, and only cold memories followed.   


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