There's a hole in my story 

There's a hole in my heart 

And this storyteller is falling apart

                                  -The Passenger

Exit

The final exit in a play,

those last few words across a page,

penultimate speech the actors say,

upon that hallowed stage,

last act, the final scene,

swift and quick emotions rage,

as shattered is their dream

his face all harrowed flesh,

That final froth-corrupted scream, oh-

 Exit life, and enter Death 

A.A. Milne

I think I need to read Winnie-the-Pooh again I discovered the authors writings are beautiful.

'Some people care too much. I think it's called love'

'I used to believe in forever, but forever's too good to be true'.

Winter

Sometimes the hills look like fallen giants, their spines arched convulsively in death throes, now long grown over by the tall grass and trampled beneath some farmers feet.
The spine of the world, and suddenly the name makes sense, the angled mountains so sharp animals do not dare brave their slopes, the rivers wend an alternate path to avoid this geometric oddity and the sky sets itself at a crazed angle as the sun struggles to stay above the reaching hills.

Deciduous trees cling grimly to the mountainside, their roots arched in agony, the weight of the world bowing their bony fingers. They contrast sharply with the deep green hillsides and plush valleys that fall alongside these reaching giants; their pall like snow has freshly settled on their branches, all dead, all bare.

Their contorted limbs seem to whisper it with the dry rustle of their golden leaves now shed like robes and pooled between their roots.

Winter is coming.

The walls are painted red.

Why did they paint them red I wonder? They look like blood, or roses, or wine. That deep rich red that looks almost soft to touch. I feel like if I put my palm against the wall, my hands would come away crimson.

Did they do it to evoke warmth? Red is a warm color. Its also the color of passion and rage, jealousy and death.

It wraps around me, tinting my eyesight rose, in this universe of walls.

“The nuclear arms race is like two sworn enemies standing waist deep in gasoline, one with three matches, the other with five.”

                                    -Carl Sagan

Nightmare

I can find no silver lining to my cloud, only the tormented rain, beating out its own agonized misery upon the rooftops of the dead. And where lies the horizon from whence summer should rise, the tendrils of a blood red dusk creep higher, promising the destruction within, wrought from my own obscurity, I am a prisoner of my own soul.

 The lucid torturer who comes each night with brutal whispers of derision is none other then myself, in all my vicious candour, I persecute myself, for the wrongs I shall not commit. No life lies upon this plain of desolation, my sanctity is broken, my dreams shattered, disillusioned beyond repair.
My cold, cynical heart holds the grey desire of a thousand murderers, painting the delirious heavens a devilry of discrimination and maltreatment designed to beguile the most vindictive of spirits.

 If you enter into this bitter jurisdiction, you will find no sun to this shade, no hope to this despair, and no dawn will light these frigid skies. So upon your broken wings my friend, fly if you have the strength left to do so. Fly before this nightmare, before you too, find it your reality.

Red Wine

Sordid, it calls to the darkness within

Sickly, sinister as sin

Red gluttony spilling down my throat

Around my lips doth liquid choke,

More, more, my scrambled mind cries

As one more brain cell dies

Awakening sounds within my head

Voices I thought long dead

They whisper secret things

And to my mind an illness brings

Grotesque affliction of mine

That deadly, dark red wine

Chess

The board is set the game is played

No more moves to be delayed

The king in check the queen no more

I see the end of the chess-piece war

The bishop dead, my knight is slain

My castle sacrificed in pointless gain

The pawn creeps up, unaware

And has the impudence to declare

By some cruel twist of fate

Checkmate.

Look at me

I don't have anything to say really, but I feel like talking. Its funny how often I want to express this ball of emotions that I harbour inside me, but don't know how.
There's a darkness inside me, a heaviness to my chest like someone's foot is on my chest pressing down harder and harder. Sometimes I just want to scream at the world to look at me, just to make people stop and see me; really see me.
I want to talk and be heard, and people to ask me where I go when my eyes are so far away and I stop listening.
When someone asks if I'm ok, I wish they would actually hear the answer.