Sneek Peek At The Void Book Two: ExileBear's claws scrabbled at the rough, crumbling rock. He clung to the face of the cliff helplessly, unable to pull himself back up. "*BENJI! Help!" He yelped as one of his back paws nearly lost its grip on the tiny ledge. "HELP!" He called again, more desperately. Finally, Benji's face appeared in place of the dark, stormy sky. "Why, hello." He said calmly, in a not-at-all Benji-ish way. "Help me up!" Bear urged. Benji studied his paws for a painfully slow heartbeat before replying, "So. You need my help for once, huh, halfbreed?" "What?!" Bear gasped, staring at him in confusion. "You heard me. You're a filthy halfblood." Benji's lip curled. "But it wouldn't do to have you die here." He gingerly extended a paw, which Bear grasped in his teeth and pulled himself up, staring at his old friend in shock. "Wh-what do you mean? I'm a pureblood!" Benji tsked. "Oh, they never told you the truth~ I supposed they did tell you that you were a pureblood, practically born a hero
Tired...I'm tired of playing these gamesI'm tired of living this lifeI'm tired of breathe, it'll all get betterBecause you lied.Its not getting better.Its getting so much worse...
Free.They're asking you to rememberJust so you can forget.I'll never bend, never bowI'm stubborn to the end.You can grovel and snivel and whine,That's just fine be me.But I will never do what they demand,Because I want to be free.
.Its funny howSome people can justBlend into a crowdYou've seen them all your lifeBut never bothered to ask their nameAnd yet we say we care for everyone?
..........I don't seeWhy people yell whatI already know About myselfAt meI knowThat I'm messyAnd that I'm not the best at everythingI was there when I knew it for myselfSo you don't haveTo tell me.
IfIf I were to love you,BlindlyWould you guide me to your heart?If I were to miss you,DeaflyWould you call for my empty ears to come?If I were to tell you,MutelyWould you hear my silent cries?If I were to hold you,UnfeelinglyWould you alwaysTell me lies?
AnswersI don't write poetry.I just let the pen DanceAcross crumbled pages.I let my soulBleed into ink.As my way of askingStatues and glowingScreensFor answersBut They never answer.
we used to fly togetheri've got a good memory,but i was surprised to find the box;full of our scribbled conversationsand protestations (no, that's not right)declarations, no, dreamsof what the future might look like.we were young, vibrant, andbeautiful (and inseparable, once)and we thought we knew how totake hold of the future.for my part, i struggled withage as if i had a chance of winning;our battles were the talk of the town.you, you took to the passing of time with an eagerness that showedjust how ready you were to put away the notions of childhood.i've got a good memory,but it's easy to be selective,pick and choose the momentsthat i want to relive.we were foolish, confident(and oh, so alive)and we fell into our roleswith a predictability that is near miraculousto behold.i doomed myself to the role ofthe forever-child, always looking back,always dreaming of the carefree days.you quickly ran out of adventures,and set about finding new myst
Empty But Alivebreathing you in, octoberi taste the numbing agentseven on the very surfaceof your conspiracy, thisprepping of the patientthis unworking of the earthsealing it as-ishardening the sitesof future graves, forced shallownot harvesting, just weakeningarranging late-year stacksof blurry panic, while disablingthe defensive responseso much decline to wagebefore the winter killsoctober knows i'm a foolfor the dark underbreathof its dead open airthe howl of the breezethrough its night fields, emptybut alive, and so very not emptyits rhythm of silencebetween barks and callsstalls my heart mid-beati used to pray for its enginesto restart, before it hit groundbut now i realizethat there is no floorto this dreamand no bottom to this fall
decodei pinedunequivocallyfor the quillin soft shadows:the swallow's smileand toothyflightthe curveof treebowsrotting-freshto planta buduphigh andhemlocking-mebetween a dreamand sleepand sleepand sleepyou musn't worryI have foundan ink-sourcethus:a quibblingcreek -my soul!It willblossomlike poppieson the pagebefore me,myfingertipthe pen
To The Boys Who Died In Their SleepTo The Boys Who Died In Their Sleepc(h)ords s n a g cadence in codasplaying andromedawaves over tideswashing lives into over timesitting ondeadlines dead lieson the otherside oftimeand time folds like old laundry over clotheslinesfade into two endpoints like closed lines this is ad nauseum not ad infinitum adding sicknessto
hummingbirds only fly in the sun hummingbird girl,you are the sunlight twinklingin my eyes. a letter addressedto no one ended up on nobody'sdoorstep, dancing around odysseusand his iliad. the gods whisperin your ears at night, lending youtheir words to paint onto brittleparchment. you are a mysterycloaked in fragments and fabricatedwings, the taste of the universeon my tongue. if i could unlockthe cage i would set you free,but my nimble fingers aren't goodfor anything except tying knotsin heartstrings that aren't my own.
ten.why don't we sit underthe hangmans noose;contemplate lifefor a bit.watch the crows hustle aroundthesefrayed ropes, and listen to thewind rustle dirt'sleaves.there's a cool breeze comingthrough,almost too cold, its...bitter.so let's just walk away and seek thewarmthunder these charcoalfeathers.[its a comforting feeling to have life, anddeath in your control. ]
dextrorotatory doxologiesI once was a heavenly body, I think.A sharp crystal in the veins of God.I swam about in bliss fluidand rambled all truthsin new shades of deep blushas he brusquely introduced meto others more potentand livid.I felt myself nearing the heart of all matterand panicked, lodged painfullyin vein, dangerously ingrainedinstead of ascertaining thatthe truth of self is not heldbut given.And as I ventured slowly closerI posed but one query:"Tell me, what powerdo you haveto spare me?"
song birds only sing when it rainsmy little mouse,tell me- do youlike the sand underneath your feet,the ocean waters with it'scalming push and pull attitudeguiding you this way and thatwith a loving hand.do you curl beneath coversduring snow storms, listening tothe wind howl, knocking against windows-against your hands, small and muchlike glass themselves.you are peace, harmony in small storms,a soothing melody in quiet voice toanyone willing to listen toa quiet voice hidden in a tiny statue,eyes always seeking, always hidden.
.I wish that I couldGo back to the timeWhen my worst worryWas not getting enough chocolate syrup on my icecreamAnd my worst fearWas the villian in a storybookBut I have come so farAndIHateMyselfForGrowingUp.