What did the lass do to betray the angel and what valuable lesson did he learn?

lovely

We are all friends in the lonely hearts club,
Grasping for connections that don't hold.
Broken, then mended, then broken again,
We find ourselves once again.

You never know who you really are
Until you find yourself alone.
You are always in the last place that you choose to look,
Without the mirror of someone else's eyes.

So true.

Your writing reminds me of someone I knew, or at least I thought I knew. No one will ever know anyone.

Oh, the irony to learn too late that a drunkard knows lust, not love. They only have occasional hope and frequent regret.

You see, I miss his voice and I hear it in your words, but in a different style. He was my angel, and I needed him like I needed a hole in my head. He also howled at the moon.

I loved him as best I could, but he walks a lonely road.

Shall we be friends or foes?

Who's your naughty girl now?
Were you fond of her the day you met her?
Maybe she was madness and hell,
But you said you could never forget her.

Did you find her to be stupid and weak?
Did she come to you in your dreams?
Was everything lie?
Is anything what it seems?

Will she smother you with ribbons,
Will she smother you with chains?
Will she be your savoir?
Will you find the right vein?

Will she work two jobs to feed you?
Will you drink away your days?
Will she be your muse?
Is she worthy of your praise?

Will you tell her that you're dying,
Or that you simply can'��t be killed?
Will you fight for your survival,
Or will you lose your will?

She'��ll be your baby forever
If forever even exists.
In her version of the story
Your lies hurt like fists.

No one will ever know anyone.

http://youtu.be/PfSIOk9NIQc

Always enjoy reading you anywhere.

truth.

The addict wants what the addict wants
He craves it in his sleep.
He wakes and shakes, in a cold sweat,
And staggers to his feet.

The addict wants what the addict wants.
He'll get more, or he'll die.
He'll sell his soul and take the toll.
He'll laugh, so he won't cry.

The addict wants what the addict wants.
Anything for one more taste.
They tell him that he's gotta stop.
They whisper, "What a waste."

The addict wants what the addict wants.
His mind won't let it go.
He knows his sadness is only madness.
But there's one thing he doesn't know.

The addict wants what the addict wants.
She craved him that first day.
And gave her every breath for him
Then wished that he would stay.

The addict wants what the addict wants.
Even though it tears her apart.
Forever, she belongs to him,
Even if his heart
Won't hold her heart.

The addict wants what the addict wants.

We're all just killing time,
And time kills us right back.
Nothing makes much sense,
But I know that that's a fact.

Told the cat you're gone for good;
She blamed it all on me.
I couldn't take the guilt,
So I told her to smoke more weed.

Your corpse is a suitcase of journals
I dragged down three flights of stairs
And strapped in with the seat belt
For one last ride to your aunt's.

I have cigarette burns in strange places
From falling asleep in the tub.
I didn't get much rest.
I couldn't get much love.

So pour one for your dead homies,
And I will learn to be with myself.
While the clock melts down the wall,
And I wish I was someone else.

I was used.

Interesting theory. Do you speak from experience?

Hiya, Leigh.

I think we're best as writers when we speak about what we know and how we feel without trying to be anything more than honest about the story we're telling and the emotions we hope to convey. We can throw around words like "edgy" and "cryptic" to describe a style (a style I'm obviously fond of, since I'm fond of that guy who doesn't even like pancakes), but the underlying emotions are this writer's voice.

The last two sentences aren't needed for punch, when the underlying anger of the whole is more powerful without them.

Agreed.

I really like this; this is your voice.

You have to bleach first to strip your natural color to get the bright colors to stay, and even still, blue fades to an odd gray. I've had some luck with all manner of bright red, but it still means dyeing every two weeks to maintain.

Thanks. This story made my mother cry, but in a good way.

Why, thank you. (I just posted a story I wrote a few months ago.) The purple has sadly faded , but it's time for a new color.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have always loved balloons. They captured my attention with their whimsy. They'��re colorful, fun and often shiny. They bring me joy, however brief.


One of my earliest childhood memories is of my mother tying a ribbon around my wrist and telling me to hold on tight. We were at some random fair and my face and hands were sticky from devouring a funnel cake that probably deserves its own narrative. I was young enough then to still call her "Mommy" without embarrassment, but I had a short attention span and wasn't a very good listener.


I stared at my new bracelet with pride and strained my neck looking up with amazement at the balloon bobbing up and down on the other end. I tugged on the ribbon and waved my hand like an idiot. Tug tug. Giggle giggle. Mommy took my other hand and we walked. I was distracted by sights and sounds and a myriad of shiny objects along the way.


I let go of the ribbon. I thought it was an accident, but perhaps I was compelled to let go just to see what would happen. Maybe a part of me wanted to feel sad. I am clumsy and my chubby hands never work the way they should.

Anyway, I watched the ribbon unravel from my wrist in slow motion. My balloon flew away, as I grasped for something sparkling in the sun that moved in ways I didn'��t understand. I wasn'��t tall enough or fast enough. The wind picked up and I couldn'��t catch it. Before I could blink, my balloon had flown high into the treetops. For a second, it hovered among the branches, and then it was gone beyond my sight.


I missed my balloon immediately and started to cry my eyes out. A petulant child was I. Of course, Mommy was there to console me and buy me another balloon. But a part of me would always want what I couldn'��t have.


I grew older and Mommy wasn'�t always around to cater to my heart'��s desire. I gave balloons as gifts, in hopes that they would bring joy to others, the same way they brought joy to me. I try not to focus on the eventual disappointment I have often experienced with their fragile nature; I choose to admire their reckless abandon. Besides, flowers die. Or so I've always said. Balloons make me smile.


To be honest, I've forgotten the color and the shape of that balloon. No matter. I think it's obvious that I assign significance to what some might consider small things. The moral of this story is that I have learned to hold on tight. After all, there are so few things in life that bring me that kind of joy. When I have something I treasure, I catch myself looking at it with the same childish wonder. I wear the same innocent grin.


And f**k if I'��m going to let go.

Nice to meet ya.

I'll make a deal with him: I'll post some of my poetry if he continues to post his... and doesn't make such a BFD that I come here to read it.