I've thought about it, not once not twice
Words Can't explain but a way I'll device
Reasons countless than a number in a dice
If loving you is stupid then take me to a hospice
In anyway am willing to pay the price
Love is a cake all I want is a slice
You be my tea and I'll be your ice
In my world am the president and she's my vice
In my darkest she's present and she'll advice
Willing to take it all, for her I'll sacrifice
People be hating and developing lies
The stronger they speak, the stronger we rise
About the Creator
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If Evil, Why Cute?
It starts like this, fair readers: It's the early morning, and I've just stolen the last cup of coffee from the pot. I open up my brainstorming journal to scrappy pages, my laptop primed upon a dusty, glowing white screen; words either already written or about to be written upon the blank spaces.
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The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
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Comments (1)
I enjoyed the images and word use in this.