Poem 3: Crippling

I break
Down deep in my bones
Fractured

Hurt beyond repair
Whisperings
Lies spewed in my ear

You
The cause of my pain
My personal terrorist

Everyone loves you
Do they know
The person behind the jokes

The true pain you feel
They don't know
I do

I truly know you and you can't bear it
So you kill me with words
Forever a sadist

I will always care
But you have no regard
You just hide

Crippling me with your lies
Crippling yourself with your hateful eyes
Paralyzing a chance of love with your cynicism

Rigmarole (For Cassie :D)

The pristine white snow shrank underneath Rigmarole R.'s black heavy leather boots as she walked out into her frigid backyard. The date was January 21, 2020 and the position of Prime Minister of England had just been appointed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man of the people and a man of change. In his first day in office, he made a decree that all citizens of England were to have a skin pigment change in order to make a visible sign of who was or wasn't a citizen of England. Your skin color described two things about you, your occupation, and if you had served in the British military. Rigmarole's color was royal blue with a slight hint of gorgeous flickers of gold. The blue showed her occupation, botany, the study of plants, and the flecks of gold embedded in her skin represented her military time as a colonel in the army. The first thing that she thought of after the surgery was that she looked like a mishap at Willy Wonka's factory. But she had grown to tolerate her abnormal visage.

           She examined her surroundings, a habit she had picked up from her many years at war, but never truly had used since, and then bent down to check on her newest abnormal  plant find. The frozen beauty was called the Kerouac plant, and was rumored to have magical qualities. The largest being that if it was taken proper care of and produced its first fruit, it would bequeath a golden nugget underneath its roots. However, the plant could only thrive in the coldest winter climate. Rigmarole looked at the plant. It had a beautifully  tragic looking gray flower, covered in dew and freshly fallen snow. But betwixt the petals of the dim flower, a small, fire-engine red fruit was hidden. A playful, giddy smile lit up Rigmarole's face and she went in search of a shovel. She carefully dug up the plant, being sure to keep the roots secure and intact, just in case of any issues and placed the Kerouac into a pot suitable for this fine specimen. She then looked into the hole and saw a glimmering lump of gold smiling back at her. She reached into the chasm and snatched up her prize, hoisting it into the air, eyes locked onto this spectacular treasure. Then she heard a disgusting noise, like a man clearing his throat with disturbing force. Her eyes darted over in the direction of the hideous noise.

          “Hello, my dear.” The creature that made the noise declared.

          It was a small man with orange curly hair and a wispy beard of the same bright shade. He was wearing an all green ensemble that consisted of a top hat, a suit, and buckled, pointy-toed shoes.

          “Who are you?” Rigmarole asked with a confused and disturbed look on her face.

          “My name is Young Neil. I am here to collect your stolen gold that you hold in your hand. You see, I am a leprechaun. Now could you give me my gold please? I don't have all day.” He replied in an Irish dialect.

          “Your gold?!” Rigmarole shouted, “I have taken care of this plant for three years. What makes you think that you deserve it? I'm the one who worked for it! And what makes you think I'll give it to you? You can't do anything to me, you're what? Three feet tall?”

          He chuckled at her question. “Can't do anything hmm?” he retorted. Then he began to grow taller. He soon towered over Rigmarole's house and his small chuckle turned into booming, sinister laughter. “My dear Rigmarole,” he whispered under his breath, “I can grow to any size and have done awful things to many people for less important reasons than your precious golden nugget. I would not cross me if I were you dear.” A speck of his saliva had launched from his lips during his speech and landed on Rigmarole's forehead, and in that one instant her entire face had changed from her abnormal shade to its original shade of alabaster white. Her facial expressions had changed from dazed and confused to furiously angry and disgusted in a matter of seconds and Young Neil just continued his laughing while he shrank back to his original size.

          “My dear I have a proposition for you. I know of a riddle, and if you answer the riddle, you may keep the gold, however, if you choose not to answer, or answer incorrectly, I will keep the gold for myself.” He said, with a sly secret in his eyes.

          “Do your worst.” She replied.

          “Very well, What is greater than God, more evil than the devil, the poor have it, the rich need it, and when you eat it, you die?” He asked.

          She racked her mind for the answer, but could find nothing. Wait a second, she thought, nothing is greater than God, nothing is more evil than the devil, the poor have nothing, the rich need nothing, and when you eat nothing, you die!

          “The answer is nothing!” She exclaimed, proud of herself.

          “Well done my dear,” he uttered through his teeth, “however, I cannot let you keep the gold. I suppose I lied. Aw shucks.” He said flatly and without feeling.

          Rigmarole's head felt as if it were about to burst, and her eyes stared daggers at this demon standing before her. How dare this thing show up at her home, lie to her, and try to steal her hard earned treasure! Well she was about to show this hideous monster who was boss. She thought of the war, and her training, and what her golden sheen that had been so rudely taken from her represented. She stood with her head held high and her chest out and approached Young Neil. She then bashed her clenched fist against his head, with so much force that it knocked him down to the snowy ground. She looked at his small body lying in the snow with her balled fists poised on either side of her face, prepared for a brutal fight. The disgruntled leprechaun looked up at her and tried to stand up and face her. She rushed over to his cold and crumpled body and took his head between her hands she looked him deep in his eyes and snapped his neck.

          Rigmarole woke up the next day with her golden treasure right where she had left it the night before. She wanted to shut out the memory of the events of the previous day entirely, but she also needed to find out a way to dispose of the remains of Young Neil. She made her way outside to find the shovel in order to bury the leprechaun's body, but when she stepped outside, there was no body to be found. The only abnormal things that could be seen in the snow-laden ground were the two golden letters engraved in the earth “YN” and the Kerouac plant with pulsating bright gold beams of light around it. Then Rigmarole heard the disgusting sound yet again, and three terrifying words. “Hello my dear.”

Poem 2: Freind or Enemy

I was your friend and you pushed me away
Now you mock me and expect me to be OK
I am not some thing that you can just throw out
What the hell is this friendship even about

Do you really believe that I don't care
That everything I do for you now is just empty air
To you I am some idiot, some girl that doesn't know
But I really am the reason why you can't let go

You see yourself a princess, I see the wicked witch
You can turn from brains and beauty to the devil in a switch
I am not your little minion, I will never be the same
But I promise you because of that you won't forget my name

You see me as an imbecile, some dumb pathetic girl
However I am Superman, and I can change my world
You see my faith as weakness, a cop out so you say
But my belief is saving me, no matter what you say

So go ahead and mock me all you want,go ahead and brag
Because I will not ever again live as your punching bag
I see who you truly are you frenemy of mine
And I can't wait to see you here in ten year's time

Gaurded (If you saw me you would never guess prompt)

     If you saw me, you would never guess how crazy I truly am. I look "normal", just a teenage girl. Look at me and you see blond hair, blue eyes, tan skin and pristine nails. In that moment you see a human Barbie doll. However, inside I feel like G.I.Joe with PTSD. I haven't experienced an intense traumatic thing or anything like that, I just am constantly in a state of paranoia. Why should I feel paranoid? Normal kids don't feel paranoid, or at least not like this.

     It wasn't until I was in my first true depression that the stress caved in on me. I felt like an invisible hand was literally pounding on my back, like punches. My anxiety envelops me and chokes me, and this led to the panic attacks, which drag me into a pit of crippling depression that I cannot escape from. My parents don't believe me. They think I'm just a silly child. I don't blame them. There is no reason for me to feel this, my life is practically perfect.

     The funny thing is that because my friends can't read my thoughts or see the internal battle that is waging in my mind, they often say that they are jealous of my life. They really wonder why I laugh at that statement.

     I have attempted suicide a total of nine times now. No one knows. No one sees what I do, and I don't want them to. This is not for any one's benefit. I don't try to end it all for sympathy, it simply seems like the only way out. I don't try to hang myself or anything gruesome, I don't want more pain, I want escape from it. I take painkillers and go to sleep, welcoming death silently. However, no matter how many pills I take, I never even end up sick.

     During the sleep, in my dreams, I see a man, but not a normal man, he is a human form, made entirely out of light. I call him the bright man. Every time I get close to death, he wakes me up. When he wakes me up, I no longer feel the depression choking me, he is the only thing that frees me. I have stopped wanting death, now what I need is the bright man to wake me up. I am going back in tonight, and I will see what the bright man is.

     I place a bottle of pills in my hand and down the whole thing, chasing them with a bottle of water. I walk to my bed and lie down. I close my eyes and prepare myself. In my drug induced dreamland, I see a distant figure. It is not my bright man, but a tan skinned woman, with flowing blond hair. I open my mouth to speak to her, but she fades away. Everything is melting away from me, it is getting dark, when suddenly, a burst of light removes the existing scenery, replacing it with a white room.

"Stop this Carrie." The bright man whispers.
"What are you?" I ask quietly.
"A friend." The bright man responds as he lifts me up, carrying me like a child in his arms.
"No, what are you?" I ask again, loudly this time. I look at his face and he places me on the ground, turning away. His light is dimming, as is the whole room.
"Carrie, I'm not even allowed-"
"Please, I have to know!" I plead. His light has dimmed completely now, I stand in darkness.
"Carrie, please don't do this to me. Just let me help you. You are slipping away." I close my eyes.

     When I open them, I am standing at the foot of my bed, looking at my sleeping body. Am I dead? Is this what death feels like? It still feels like I'm dreaming. I look to the right and see the bright man, dressed in full armor, beside me.

"What is going on?" I ask.
"You are looking at things from a new perspective, mine to be exact." He says.
"Is your perspective always positioned at the foot of my bed? Or just while I'm asleep?"
"I am always watching you Carrie."
"Oh yeah, that makes me feel very secure, uber bright gladiator man."
"This is my job, Carrie! I have to watch you at all times because you can't protect yourself from yourself. You should really thank the 'uber bright gladiator man'. Without me you would be just another victim of another crime."
"How is watching me sleep helping me? Who do you think you are?"
"I am your GUARDIAN, Carrie!"
"What?"
"I'm your guardian angel. Everywhere you go, I am always right behind you, protecting you from harm. You still have so much that you can do Carrie, I can't let you ruin your own destiny by ending your life. Technically, I'm not allowed to revive you, but I do. I feel greatness inside of you Carrie, I can't let you throw that away." He reaches toward me and grasps my hand, he looks into my eyes.
"So, you could have just let me die, and would have been done with me?"
"Yes."
"But you didn't?"
"No."
"Why?"
"If you allow yourself to persevere through this, you will do beautiful and wonderful things for our world."
"What if I can't persevere?"
"I will always be with you, to guide and push you."
"Why me though? I'm not stable!"
"No human being is stable. You all feel the pain you are currently feeling, some just deal with it differently."
"But I-"
"Carrie, stop making excuses for yourself. You doubt your abilities and give up, but you have great potential. You can impact your world, if only you see that death is not an escape, but a dead end. The only way to end the pain is to push on through it. I can't choose your path for you anymore. Give up and fall into eternal blackness and pain, or wake up and do what you were destined for." He faded away and in that moment I decided my fate. I closed my eyes.

When I woke up, I saw my life for what it truly was. I was no longer being trapped by depression and anxiety. I was no longer paranoid because I knew I had someone on my side. Instead of feeling like I was being beaten, I walked tall, knowing that I was guarded. Now, I knew that I was ready to live life, not just fake happiness.

Freewrite 2

I really hate this. This aching feeling in my stomach that makes me want to throw up. They say that its ok, but it isn't. Everyone is leaving me, and I stay. I want to run and get as far away as I can. I crave travel and fame. Am I able to get those things? No, it seems like I am stuck in the whirlpool of suck that is this town.
Maybe college will be different. Maybe then I won't feel so guilty about wanting something better for myself. Is it bad that I can see myself in front of a crowd of people, bringing something to them that they had never thought of before? Is that bad? Am I selfish for wanting these things? Can someone please explain to me which desires are beneficial and which are superficial? I question everything about my life now. Am I good enough? Is this right? Do they get it? Then I have to pit myself against my peers and compare us. Look at her body, I could never be as beautiful. Look at how she moves, such grace I will never have. Listen to that voice, how could I ever compare?
I become envious and I fester hate for them simply because they have talent or beauty or something I feel like I don't. I now want more than anything to be better! I have become obsessed with bettering myself because I am finally being praised and appreciated for my work. All my life I have spent my time pointing the great things in my friends out, and I shied away from my talent and beauty. I never took the advice that I gave to my friends because I never believed that I deserved it.
By encouraging others, have I been silently killing my own self esteem? I build the people around me up, and in the process, I tear myself down. Though I dole out these words of affirmation, I never get my own. People don't see that I need to be built up as well, and even if they are happy, and I am smiling, inside I am weeping, mourning over the loss of my confidence and assurance.
I am confident in one thing, my voice. I have found the one thing in this world that can makle me feel beautiful, talented, intelligent, happy, and satisfied. When I sing, I can conquer the world, but then people tell me that I am getting a big head. So, I lower my self esteem again and I feel like nothing. Why can't I be confident and proud of myself? Is that cockiness? Why is this such a bad thing?
I understand that my talent can get to my head, but I earned this respect for myself. I work day in and day out singing my ass off, and that is a bad thing now? If I'm not good tell me, but if I am,,. why can't I have some pride in what I do? I will not be satisfied with little. I have big dreams and I will accomplish them. Call me cocky all you want, I will not stay stagnant in this little town for the rest of my life.

Poem 1: Little Words (so much teenage angst)

Am I just another girl to you?
Do you even care?
These little conversations between us

Confusing me
Uplifting you

Just saying words
You stand as I fall down into that pit of you
I thought I had filled it
But it was a trap

I want to say how much I care
But where are the words
So I just laugh
And you smile that perfect smile
For a moment I wonder if you have fallen too

The smile fades
I soak in our little words
Are they nothing?

I'll never know
I just sit here in my room and think of you
Hoping that you think of me too.

Freewrite 1

Isn't it frustrating when you have a really great day and then one minuscule thing ruins it completely. I try really hard to be a compassionate person. Whenever I do something right though, something else just flies into my face and blocks out everything, forcing me to completely focus on the negative. Then I just get so worked up about it and my entire day is in the trash.
I really am not a violent person. I just get so angry sometimes. Some days I can control it, but others... The other day I literally almost punched one of my good friends in the face, and why? Because she said "You're stupid."
Simple, but so very aggravating. I understand that some days I have my blond moments, don't we all? But if you straight up say that I'm stupid, I will become very angry and imagine myself killing you in many different ways in my mind. That's my therapy I guess.
I really hate being so angry, because it pushes people away. It pushed my brothers away, and now I barely know them.
People push me too far. They don't undertstand that I'm a ticking time bomb I guess.

A Short Story Entitled Moving Forward

Moving Forward

            My mind wanders. I have no idea of where I am going. My feet ache as they strike the dusty road. Tears stain my eyes. How did I get to this barren place? My heart aches. Why did he have to touch her? My father had to hurt her, my little sister, the only person in this world that I truly loved. We had an agreement and he smashed it into pieces. I was great at hiding my true hatred, but he had to hurt her. When he had beaten me, I felt nothing and I never cared. I didn’t care about what happened to me, I knew how to handle it, but she was just a kid. She was only ten for Christ’s sake! I begged that the day would never come, but he did it, he slammed her head against a table. The blood was everywhere when I came into the dining room, and what did I do next? I ran. I ran away, and here I am, in the middle of nowhere, alone.

            I remember when I could feel. I had good and bad days, I would laugh and cry, sometimes I even shouted. But now what was I? I am cold, unfeeling to the rest of the world, alien even. My father punched and kicked and threw that girl out the window. I had more hatred in my bones than marrow. I was nothing but the hard outer shell of the girl I once was. The sobs coming out of me had now stopped, and so had my feet. I compose myself enough to sip in some more air in order to return to my escape. I look in front of me and see only the barren road. I didn’t dare to look back. My past was gone now, I had to keep on running. As soon as I do, however, I feel a blow to the back of my head. My vision blurs, and I feel dizzy. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. I fall to the dusty ground and I no longer see the road that was once in front of me.

            When I wake up, I am in a small, dark room. There is a man in a brown cloak blocking the only door. I am bound to a large table and surrounded by leaves, candles, and a plethora of scents. My eyes began to water, my senses were always very sensitive. I make no sound. I remember the times when my father would lock me in the basement with him so he could hurt me. I had to learn to cooperate, that was the only way he would stop, that was the only way to stay alive. If I whined or cried, he would hit me harder. Noises aggravated him, and I had to assume that they annoyed these men as well. My father never wanted me to hate him, he wanted me to love him, and when I showed that I didn’t he would hurt me, he didn’t understand. These men don’t understand either. If you don’t cooperate, you die. By cooperating I have lived through him throwing me off the roof three times, him choking me out ten times, and five broken bones. I’m positive that cooperation will help me in this situation as well.

            I look around again, trying to register where I am. Despite a thick layer of smoke surrounding me, I see some dark green, dew covered grass. Grass is good, this means I am not in a building but a hut or tent of some kind. Grass gives me a sense of freedom, I was in the open, not locked in, there was earth right under me. This freedom flame I felt was snuffed out by the sound of footsteps crushing the grass. I froze. My eyes were up on the ceiling and I pretended I was invisible. I heard every haunting step that was made on that thick layer of grass. My heart skipped a beat. Finally the footsteps stopped at my bedside. A man's face was staring at me from the side. He had a faint scar on his neck, like a brand on cattle. Other men in brown cloaks filed in surrounding my table, all having the same brand upon their skin. All of the men were speaking in a foreign language above me, and I stayed frozen on the table, a cadaver waiting for dissection. My eyes widened in surprise as I heard one of the speaking English. “Don't try to escape, we will have you killed if you do. You are ours now.” he said. I laid as motionless before, waiting for the serenity of sleep to overwhelm me again. I just wanted to cooperate, cooperation is key.

            I woke up the next day in open air. The tent with the smoke was gone, now I was in a wooden prison, wearing a white dress. I didn't think about how the dress was put on, you never dwell on those small things, all I was doing was looking toward the next thing, what would happen next? I laid still on the floor, waiting to be told what to do, how I could cooperate for them. Cooperation is key. They opened up the door to my cage and picked me up by my hands and feet,carrying me to my next stop. As they walked, I looked behind them, my long dark hair entangling with the thick, dew covered grass. It seemed like the earth was trying to claim me, and save me from these men, however, I knew that no salvation was coming for me.

            We arrived at our destination, and the men dropped my body onto the ground. When I hit the ground, I let out a small cry of pain, but then I quieted myself, pain is not cooperating, pain is aggravating. I turned my throbbing head to the side to see what was happening, but all I saw was a formation of five sticks, one in front, two crossed in an x behind it, and two more in an x about four feet away. The sticks were all the same height at about six feet in the air, and I knew what I was up against now. That was an altar, I was about to be sacrificed.

            The two men that had carried me before were commanded by a man with a book to pick me up again. The book he held had an engraving of the same symbol that all of the men that surrounded me in the tent had on their necks. Before I could see any more, the men picked me up and placed me on top of the altar. The lone stick pierced my back and I took in a sharp breath. The pain was unbearable. I tried to cooperate, I tried to keep the tears back, but the pain was too much. I drank in another breath and screamed with all of me. Storm clouds rolled in above my head, and I wished they would sweep me up with them. My scream began to fade out as I took what I hoped was my last breath, and I screamed even louder. For the first time, I didn't care about cooperation. All of the terrible things that had happened to me came rushing back to me, and finally I saw his face. My father, as I saw it, my scream stopped and the storm finally started, a bolt of lightning struck my heart, every part of me jolted up, and I was lifted off of the altar. My feet struck the earth, and it seemed to welcome me, softening the blow. I looked up with eyes blazing and the men in cloaks tried to run, but I was faster. Whatever happened to me during that storm changed me, and I didn't have to cooperate anymore, they did. I ran up, grabbed two cloaks, lifted them up, and slammed them back into the earth all in one sweep of my hands. I proceeded to do this to all of the men in cloaks except one, the translator.

“Don't hurt me!” he pleaded. I chuckled under my breath.

“Stop babbling and answer me one question.” I demanded. “What were you trying to do to me?”

“We were making a sacrifice to Belheth, goddess of power. We needed a woman your age, and you were alone on the road, but something must have been protecting you, because Belheth never lets anyone go.” he cried. He kept pleading for me to let him go, but I was not about to have someone I have to worry about behind me, so I killed him like the others and started my journey home. I was going to pay a little visit to my father.

            I walked along the dusty road that only a day ago I was sobbing beside. In one day, so much had changed. I thought about what the translator said to me. Someone must have been protecting me, but who? I looked up into the sky. It had just been so dark, and now the sun shone more bright than ever. It was a new day, and I no longer needed to hide in the shadows from him. I was ready to confront him, he needed to feel all of the pain and heartache that I had felt because of him.

            Eventually I arrived at the house that once was a home to me. No one seemed to be home, so I let myself in and sat on the couch. I looked around and the hauntingly familiar place flooded my brain with memories. It was a very masculine house, despite the three women living there. Father thought that if the house looked the way we wanted, we would want control of everything. The first black eye he gave me was because of a portrait I drew in first grade and put up on the refrigerator. He called it tacky and threw me to the floor, throwing the picture in the fire place. I cried myself to sleep that night. I shook the thoughts out of my head and try to forget those dark days. This was a new day, the day that monster dies.

            Finally, I heard the door handle turn, someone was home. My father flung the door open and set his briefcase down. He looked up from the ground and stared into my eyes, awestruck.

“Hello Father.” I said, my face blank again. He lurched forward growling and grabbed for my throat, but I quickly swatted his hands away, flinging him into the coffee table. He laid there grumbling, and I picked him up chuckling. I put his cheeks in my palms and said, “Welcome to my world.” with that I snapped his neck.

            Suddenly, I flew back into the door, unable to move. I look around, wondering what could have done such a thing, and see the one person that I never thought I would see again, my sister, alive and well, not even a scratch on her. “You do understand that you were chosen for a reason right! You can't just go around killing people whenever you want you know.” she shouted. 

“What!?! How are you?” I stammered.

“Sweetie, we are more powerful than you could ever believe, no mere human could kill us!”

“We aren't human?”

“Oh no, we are much better darling, much better, we are the protectors of this world, we are Enchantresses, or as the humans like to say, witches.” she said,and then everything started making a lot more sense.