Untitled by Starz

You could never relate to my thoughts, fears, and insecurities...
Let go of your bullshit and move on she says!
Easily traumatized, frequently scared, never truly letting anyone in...
LET ME OUT!
Throw me out, suck me in, push me in. Into your world of make believe.
Where you say fantasies come true, I lost vision to what is true.
I am your hostage, your victim, your prisoner...
I am drained, tired and hungry, haven't slept in months, haven't tasted food in years.
I live off her fluids, it nourishes my black soul and I couldn't be any happier

Assumed Fate by Christoper Vasquez

Tempted fate to undisclosed what seems to be keys to answer my undefined answers to pleading for guidance...although we tend to underestimate the fact that a conclusion is justifying the answer that we assume to be as solved. Nothing more that just a second based theory to discovering that we as people merely decide to take life into our own hands and determine the outcome. If we push the barriers and maybe take us a second to actually listen and acknowledge the face that we don't know all the answers, but are capable of learning most of them, will we be finally able to see that grain of sand, something so small and simply is yet the glass once broken from shattered memories of someone else's life. Could it be possible that we don't take the time to possibly listen and recognize that the even in the simplest form, a story lies behind it...ending the story seems like the best thing to do , but actually taking the time to it full out, would be considered impossible. Because no one is willing to see the while situation, only what eyes supposedly speaks. Those who listen are the ones to find their very conclusion at the end of the tunnel. Chapters are soon closed, but the book is impossible to keep shut, for the fact, someones eyes will catch its attention, and in that time, maybe it'll be read with and for purpose

by Nina

Because it is 8:54 and we are in North Hampton
during winter when the door opens
the rooms winces and she is crying again
folded into the corner
by the bed frame except
there is no bed frame
and her eyes look like crystals
with a freckle on the right side
where I can see the river
because this house walks on stilts
and her body was built on a hill
but it may rain tomorrow and the snow
is waiting on the river because
it is winter and the rocks
cant seem to stop anything
so they are less violent
though she is crying perfectly
she slowed to push her hair from her
eyes cant see the way
she wants them to imagine
without blinking there is plastic on the windows
and the crisp New England air smells less colonial then
I would have expected less real then
I remembered waiting upstairs
I heard the phone ring
in the jar by the mirror
with the scratchesthat read like hieroglyphics
decoding the reflection of the memory and the
seasons spent forgetting
the impression of the river and the
voice that followed her father's questions
when she woke up in the middle of the
night to find that she sighs differently now