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?
On self-loveMaybe whoshe really loves,is the nameof the boyshe thinks of,while she linesher chatoyant eyeswith charcoalmaybe the nameshe really needs to think of,is her own.
If you can't sleepIf you can't sleepit's harder than your nighmaresor better than your dream.
Michaelasometimes, you meet people who are stormsin bottles, who are ships cast away on rockycoastlines, contained in a mason jar. sometimesyou meet volcanoes in human skin, earthquakeswith a laugh that sounds like skipping rockson summer colored lakes. sometimes, you meetpeople who are whirlwinds wrapped up in muscle and bone,who are more miracle than mistake.i think about that a lot when i look at her.to be fair, she is nothing more than me and youbut she has a hurricane brewing in her eyesand dandelions growing through the cracksin her sidewalks and i think that’s wondrousenough.i know our lungs are the same—on mondaysand thursdays, we both find it hard to keepbreathing and sometimes if i listen hard enoughi think i can hear the storms battering her shoreline,but you could never tell with the way she smiles.don’t tell her, but she smiles like the sun.she smiles crooked, like baby teeth and moralsand the first time you try to hang up a sign.god, she sm
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
WiccaWe are Wicca,We are not evil.We are hunted and burned by the church,Because we are different,Not in appearance,But in our beliefs.Our ways are different,Our minds are too,And because we dont follow one god blindly,We are burnt alive,Burnt for something we didnt do.They called us heretics,Witches and whores.Burnt at the stake for no faith in their lord.They call us evil when they burn us alive.They drown our children to see if they were right,If our children sink,Then they were good,But if they were to rise,To death is where they go.The church is our enemy,From no fault of our own.They hate our gods and goddesses,Because our gods are not their own.
Insanity needs companyand now I’m stuck here,pondering,how the walls becamea veiny sight-(could the cause be me calling outyour namein the middle of the night?)and alone I stand here,wondering,how my feet gotnailed upon this floor-(do you hold my ankleslike an anchordoes the shore?)and I know it’s been thirteen yearssince you were here at all,according to the hash markscarved uponthe wooden wallbut I can’tlet goof our memories,that hauntme everydayso for now,I’ll let the doc declare: Insanity needs company.
Roses and CoffeeMasarm takes his coffee blacklike the collar of his favourite shirtand the shadow of childhood;Sally tempers the tartness of tastewith salt and sugar-crustedpetals of roses in her cup.When he's angry, Masarmburns fiercely, a broodingthat bites only himself, and Sally,when she's angry, spitsacid and flings platesthat shatter over his head.Still, somehow it's always Masarmwho sends flowers; Masarmwho swallows down the bitterness.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
.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.