chromareverie

Links join together Length after length, And flow as one ruddy brown chain Connected to a rock by sleeping and peaceful panther. But the panther soon Awakens KREEEAAAAAK The chains strain against Each other As they are pulled desperately away from The rock which holds them And soon CRACK The links disconnect Unrestrained, Flying away From slashing claws Unharmed, For the only Pain Was In That Saving B           r                       e        a                                                k

Sometimes the Right hand of God is a terrible thing, And sometimes the Left is even worse. Sometimes, with His Right hand, God carries you forward, guiding you beyond the aches of this world and onto the path of His calling. And then sometimes, with His Left, reaches down your throat and grips your heart, Striking each string and saying, “I will make you feel as you should” in a painful symphonies, teaching you empathy by attuning you to harmonies seemingly too cosmic to fathom, grounding and grinding you down into the dust of a single moment. Sometimes the Right hand of God strikes you down with love, from the towers of br

The hand cannot forget The tickling sensation of shy fingers brushing against each other. The dress cannot lose The sweet, fruity smell of a girl’s first prom. The watch will always remember Exactly how it’s leather band fits around an old man’s wrist. But the mind forgets. And the memories Of the face of someone who flipped your stomach Of your friend's laughter at a dance And the old man with thick black glasses. Slowly fade and blur Until they are nothing more than echoes.

I need something beautiful tonight. I don't care what it is or where it comes from or how much it stings. I just need something beautiful tonight. Something to show me that not everything tastes bitter. Something besides the ugliness in my head, heart, and mirror. Something besides the lack and love of pain,                      besides this cotton, novacaine                                            hum of my veins that seduces every part of me into a mechanical autonomy of numb-nothing-nows. I just need something beautiful tonight. Something besides the sandpaper sound my voice makes in my ears, something beyond the routine rot

 The Shop of Broken Dreams (Short Story) The street was alive; it’s breath sounded like footsteps and chatter. Traffic lights blinked like eyes, and the huge crowd of people on the street moved as one giant monster, always walking, never stopping. It was so alive, and yet so, very dead. I watched the people roll in past me, the occasional person trickling into a store. I plunged into the crowd out of habit, losing myself as a drop of water loses itself in the ocean. I had come here to clear my head, to be comforted by someplace I knew, but instead I found myself surrounded by the unknown. Noise filled my head--cellphones ringing, the

I remember When I thought you were more beautiful than The girls on the magazine covers My young, bright, innocent eyes staring up at you In adoration. And I always wondered Why you came home crying And why you said you weren’t pretty. I remember Walking past your room on a rainy day And hearing the music from your earphones My eyes, older but still shining, widened In surprise. And I always wondered Why you drowned yourself in music And locked yourself away from the world. I remember When you showed me your scars And told me how the blood on your thigh made you smile. My eyes, dulled after a decade of life, with only a faint spark, s