V-Swizzle

Sometimes you know something about yourself. A terrible. Dark. Filthy. Vile. Secret. One so powerful, you can’t even imagine uttering it. Because it could destroy what everyone would think of you. It could ruin you. Not the mere kind of ruin that is very easily recoverable from. But the kind that it could and would change how everyone looks at you. And you’re terrified of speaking it. You’re terrified of anyone finding out. And the moment you realize how dangerous it is, you want to fling it away. Change the fact. Tell someone and prove it means nothing. Hide it underneath a thousand layers. But with somethi

Damnit! Another canvas ruined. Sigh, I wish they’d stop doing that. It’s all burnt now, how can I paint or do anything with that? But I guess there’s some scraps of pure white left. So…. I guess I’ll just tear here… And cut there…. Ha! It’s free~ Time to go paste this on my big one! I really ought to stop trying to design new paintings, they just end up getting burned or torn. And then I have to take the last little piece and add them to my main one. It’s turning into a collage though. I don’t like collages. Darn. I guess that’s all I can do though. Keep tr

So many, Painted around the room in different ways. Some are painted, Others carved so to speak. As I sit and watch I am careful. When I see someone is about to carve something in, I fight them for it. I dash in front of them but I’m always too weak. I get thrown aside and they finish their business of carving into the wall. I whimper and cry and fight but it never stops them. Some are kind, And they leave after they finish the pain they inflict. Some are crueler and stick around. The best are when they finish the mark and realize what they’ve done to me. That I will never forget the pain they’ve caused. And t

Recently I've been playing around in my mind, trying to make it work in a certain way, as opposed to how it naturally does. Which is fine, if it didn't retaliate. because somehow I ended up opening a door. A door to a room once filled with bright paintings and creativity and smiles. But my fingerprints are the only ones in it. Save the fingerprints on the door and the door knob, from people trying to get it. But the paintings all look black now. And I can't find a smile anywhere. Just old packets of knowledge that I can't make sense of. But that's not the bad part. The bad part is, even though I immediately turned away from the room. With wa

It feels as though Love is the joy Of the world. Very carefully we handle Every little interaction because we know Ruin is what it could bring.

Roses are red, Violets are blue, I could write an essay on what I feel for you. Every little "flaw" Every little blush, Makes me smile Just to think of.

Irises Lilies Orchids Violets Everywhere Roses

Who am I? The question forms in one’s mind. And it terrifies them. To the very core. That’s natural. They have built a life based on their original response. But that life trembles at this. The notion that they have lived a lie. They fight the notion for a while. This must be false. They know who they are. That is what they think, But do they truly know? Do they know who they are? So they entertain the thought. They try to think through the notion. And they succeed. They find the truth. They let this notion flood their mind. They let painful memories long since block return. And it consumes them. Who they are