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All They See Is ScarsI want to tell a story,
but this story isn't a fairy tale
and it wont have a happy ending,
because the real ones, well
they never really do.
In high school
I picked up my pen
and I began to write
It existed and it was pure
and it was lovely.
But my rapist rewrote me.
breathing on my neck
and tracing my back with his fingers.
He rewrote me as broken.
He wrote me as a statistic,
as another white girl who got told
that she cried rape for attention.
But that didn't matter because see,
I wanted to tell a story.
A story about family,
about picking each other up
about blood being thicker than water
about how not everyone's home
had to be broken.
But my father rewrote me.
When i picked up my pen
he spoke words to me
that I swear bruised my whole body
and I learned that nothing
was thicker than his alcohol
and my home was already shattered.
But I wanted to tell a story.
so I picked up my pen
to write about god.
A God that could save anybody
And God loved everybody,
which was the onl
Tired of being meI'm tired of being me
Tired of this life of misery
I don't know why I keep fighting
It's pointless to drag out the suffering
I want to end the pain
It's driving me insane
But I keep it all in
To feed the demons within
Writing a storyBloody words
A canvas of flesh
And a blade for a pen
I'm just writing a story
The story of my life
Breaking the habbitCutting
Is a bad habbit
That becomes an addiction
We love the pain
We love the blood
We love the adrenaline
It causes numbness
To go away
Even if only for a moment
We know it's wrong
But we can't help it
We always say:
"Just one more"
And when we try to end it
It becomes worse
We miss the shine of the blade
The crimson color of the blood
And its taste on our mouth
The blade is caling me now
Should I attend to it?
My Life With Mental Illness Part:1My life with schizophrenia.
My life depends on being in a tightrope
I have to always be firm for balance
Ie, every time I suffer a delusion or hallucination
The rope where I am begins to shake me trying of make me fall
But I have to be strong to ever fall.
My life with generalized anxiety.
It is very difficult to live in fear of just about everything around you
Never I leave home, because I think someone will do me harm
I'm never around someone, because he can make fun of me
Always my body and my hands are shaking non stop
I always feel anxious or concerned about something
There can never be a relaxing day for me.
Battle ScarsBattle Scars
Once a young boy asked me
Why do I have those marks on my wrist?
I told him it was because of depression
He asked, “What was that?” and what I said went something like this…
You feel nothing at all
No pain, no pleasure, no life, no death
Nothing, like a doll
It’s a fire burning in your soul
Consuming every inch of flesh and bone
Like you are nothing but a lump of coal
Your mind drowning in it’s own pool of tears
You see nothing but the blue
Feel nothing but the fears
Like a ton of bricks upon your shoulders
Pressing down, crushing you under
Each day another boulder
Tearing up your thoughts and dreams
The feeling eating away at your mind
Splitting you at the seams
A way to control your emotions
A blade to cause the sensation
As you make the slicing motions
Emerging from cuts in red
Reminding you that you’re alive
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More