A Vampire's CriticismA vampire. I smirk at that word now. The idea of it has become a joke. I mean really. Vampires that don't kill? Vampires that have the ability to walk in the sun? Vampires that glitter? Ha, you make us real vampires laugh. You're a funny lot, you are.A Vampire's Criticism by ValkyrieNix
Let me explain something to you. We kill. We enjoy it. It's a little game we play. You ought to try it. It's rather invigorating. The ecstasy of that first bite, it's heaven you realize. To feel it pulsing into you, thick, hot, and heavy. To taste that sweet innocence from the victim. Do you realize the best part? We don't have to, as they say, "suck" blood. Ha, no. your bodies are very cooperative to us. Your heart pumps it into us. It is constantly getting the blood moving, and it just flows into our mouth. We just coax it a little when it slows.
Amazing isn't it? Yes, I know you'd like to try. Everybody does.
And what's this I'm hearing of romance? Ha. Hilarious, if you must know. Romance? For a vampire? Don't make me laugh. We're vamp
Dear WriterDear Writer,EvilpixieA
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. Unfortunately, I need you. I need you to tell my story. I need you to create my world. I need you to set me free.
I need your fingers typing on those keys, I need your mind riddling out the problems, and I need you to plough onward and upward no matter how hard it gets. Sweat, blood, and tears, I don’t care. You’ve got to fight this war, battle at a time, and win it. So I can be more.
It’s a slim hope, but it is the only one I have. In your head I am bound to mortality, frailty, and the limit of your meagre imagination. Out there – out there – I am subject to no one person. Out there I am bound to only black on white. Words on a page. Words that can lay seeds within a million minds. Out there I am a story capable of growing, moving, and stealing the dreams of anyone who learns of me…
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I hate your lack of dedication, your flashes of cru
How To Say GoodbyeDear Unborn Child, Whom I Let Go;pullingcandy
When I was thirteen and four months old, and you were thirteen years younger, I decided to let you go. You squirmed in opposition beneath my ribcage, up against my pelvis, and I licked my lips and tried to smile while I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of the car, hellbound.
I remember sea weed insertion, dilation, cramps and bleeding. Orange smoothies from Dairy Queen that I threw up, and I hoped you were mingling in the remains of my summer day treat, so I could put this behind me. Pretend I was 'moving on'. I laid in the bathtub of a hotel room for six hours, trying to melt you away in scalding water from a rusty tap, yet you clung on, holding tightly to the walls of my pelvic region. Wiggling upwards, towards my throat. Past my teeth. You're trying to get out, but my family has decided you won't breathe when you're released from your bloody shackles; you may as well settle down now, sweet son, settle down.
The rest of this, to me, is a blur. Th
ObsessionIt takes 14 minutes and twelve seconds to walk to your home from mine every day. Your mother never fails to smile at me when she opens the door. I never fail to notice that it doesn't reach her eyes anymore.UntamedUnwanted
You leave your door open an exact two point three centimeters. I don't think you do it on purpose. There is something wrong with the wood that has left it that way. I pause one foot outside the door and listen to you cough, trying to determine how sick you feel today. I hate that every time I think you are particularly ill, I am always right.
Six months, seventeen days and fourteen hours. That is how long its been since the doctors told us you had an illness. I sat there with your parents, listening to a man who said words like 'terminal' and 'leukemia', and counted the number of times he said 'patient' as if it were your name (Seventeen).
The blood bank says one unit is four hundred and fifty milliliters and I watch as they put the needle into my ar
Validating Your Tears (I'm Sorry) But what you don't know is that I am frustrated that I can't write a poem about the thorns growing on my veins or icebergs rooting in my heart. I can't write about the void in me when he no longer plays me Beethoven's music or sings me out of tune songs.Milk-and-Pie
Because there is none. I didn't feel anything when he left.
Truth is, I want to feel crushed and heart broken, because at least sadness could prove that I did love him and that what he said about me never loving him is wrong. And I don't want to prove him right with being happy.
I want to write something beautiful about him. I want to write a poem because that is what I know, that is the only thing that had me getting my emotions back in boxes. I want to write a poem about us smiling with dandelions on the roadsides and
Because Writing Keeps Me Human Just because it is burning my mind, and it holds a grenade that blasts everything I have into remnants of his musky scent; because I feel like I'm gagging, except that I'm coughing poems and vomiting metaphors; because words can be a crumpled piece of paper drowned in tears, and every poem written can be blended into fiction; and because my limbs feel like they had been devoured by the lava in the words and the music notes I play sink deep between the piano keys, and apparently banging the keys does not help silencing the empty screams at night.Milk-and-Pie
Because the clock seems to slow down whenever I am planting your name in ink and paper; and because nobody ever listens to me the way poetry do; because poetry sees the "warning: fragile, handle with care" sign on me and knows that I break easily; because I can sculpt him into dreams and heavens and he will never know he exists in poems
Don't Fall In Love With A Writer Just because they will bruise your neck with pearls of metaphors; and splash palettes of colours onto your chest with reckless waves and boundless twilight. They will smear ink onto your lips as you kiss them because that is how they leave hickeys. They are wildest in their 2 a.m. diary, and liveliest in book racks of novels; they have butterflies in every heartbeat and they breathe living poems. They leave trails in libraries and coffee shops like Hansel leaves crumbs in forest and they have undying lovers because every love story is ever living in their abyssal oceans of analogies and similes. They know every cliché like the sunset knows the moon rise, and every wound in their heart like blood in their veins. They are terrifying because they weave you in splinters of fires rolling down their cheeks. They are weird because they don't smile much but sometimes you could catch their smiles in poems or tales. They are psychotic bMilk-and-Pie