Seeing - 1: So it Begins Bright in early in the morning of August second, before everything gets to being sweaty and miserable, the birds are just starting to sing. This actually has nothing to do with the story what-so-ever, I just thought you'd like to know. What actually does have something to do with the story is that not far from the stinky, stanky swamp and the big, mean, dark woods there is a small village. In this village there is a market, an under used inn, a bar and civilians.Seeing - 1: So it Begins by thorn333
Among said civilians are men, women, children, dogs and horses, all the beings you could wish for in a peaceful town. Plus a little more. When you pick out the ripest apple, there's always a chance of a worm who beat you to it. That worm happened to be named Archie Wurmwort.
Archie is among the nastier people of society, as he is arrogant, bitter and mean. Of course, there is always hope, for maybe the man could end up choking to death o
Ms. Crow and Pug-FaceSometimes, after it rains, and it smells like the earth,Ms. Crow and Pug-Face by thorn333
and the trees go dark and adorn themselves in moss,
I think of people who aren't afraid to touch the milky sky
and part the clouds to see the stars faded by city light.
These people are like butterflies, always out of reach,
and never living very long.
And sometimes, when the world splits me into five people instead of one,
it's all I can do to hold myself back,
and not spit venom back into your face, which you wear like a mask
over your swollen head.
You remind me of a pug.
It's those once upon a time dreamy moments
when I find myself thinking about you, but then my mind tells me
that I am treading to close to a trap.
At lucky full-moon-and-mist times the heartbeat of chaos
stills to a mere noise that merges into the others,
and I wonder what's behind that mask.
Whisper to me, that it is okay to be scared,
because even crows have to know when it's bravery or just
Every time I taste your blood in my mouth, like penni
a poem for terrible people.i want to write a poem about primrosesa poem for terrible people. by estallidos
and how i am not a terrible person.
i am disordered but not disorderly. i am broken up.
i think nice thoughts like "streetlight" and "linens,"
and is there an instruction guide on happiness?
i could write one for you.
step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.
step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers.
step three, turn into a dandelion. blow away.
my heart tries to escape from my throat. okay,
i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone,
ever, not even imaginary best friends. or real ones.
or myself. freud says i am an iceberg, but i don't
know if he means i am full of repressed thought
or just a frigid bitch who will cut you open.
step four, there is no step four.
if i am an iceberg, i desperately need
someone to warm me in the palms
of their hands. no one ever will though,
because i sink ships and tear people apart.
once there was a girl who told people
that she was not terrible, but the primroses
in her garden would never bloom
as if th