Untytld

I was born running out of time in a world where nothing can be mine when will we realize it's a sad world for rich and unkind? I was born in a good gone bad box of decaying porous sand when will we realize it's a sad world for the dead and despised? I was born under the shadow of death a burden of fire and stones on my head when will we realize this illusion is for the dead, rich and unkind? I was born in a facade called despair danger and grace, a gift that we all share when will we realize there's nothing for smaller minds?

  The Art He draws it under a bridge of isolation, his pencil is blunt.

The Bridesmaid by Ruth Rendell Hutchinson, 1989 304 pages Philip Wardman loathes violence and everything that has to do with it. When he meets his sister’s bridesmaid, Senta, who is identical to Flora, a statue in his garden, they fall madly in love. But the problem is, she wants him to prove his love to her by murdering someone.

Fear is a demon of multiple voices I don't know which is which the terror bouncing around the corners of my mind. Sadness comes like a thief in the night to steal my will to live and leaves me with a waterfall of tears I cannot cry. Anger is the spirit of pointless defeat my rage the chaos of my own mind and I'm the only one left to witness it. Hate is my murderer patiently waiting to manifest. The devil in me. Death is sweet release or painful sleep, dreaming of playful sheep.

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott Roberts Brothers, (1st Volume) 1868, (2nd Volume) 1869 527 pages Little Women is about the journey of four sisters as they grow from adolescents to adults together after the Civil War in America. It was originally published in two volumes. Meg (Margaret), Jo (Josephine), Beth (Elizabeth), Amy Curtis, and their mother, Mrs March are the main characters of the story. This novel is very complex; each chapter is like a short story from a character’s point of view. This style really adds to the development of the story and you get to grasp who they are as you read on.

My soul is winter under the sun, I tremble with the cold that the melted ice has left me, alone. The warmth I held in my hands like a bird with wet wings, my frozen hands. In a desert where rain falls like buckets of blazing water my eyes know only the darkest clouds. Even when the sun shines to burn my back I look deep into it, to blind me so when the blue sky comes to greet me in the deadness of each morning I would not see it.

The cause of everything is the same as the difference between the world and itself. It's like a constantly changing, evolving mixture of hate and love for mankind. By itself, for itself it kills itself and loves itself. And it ponders on its own axis. Its everlasting view of the sun and the universe. It cries for more and haggles for less. Its slowly deteriorating existence will not let itself die. It must extend itself to peaceful colonies and destroy to recreate and destroy again. But now, we must go along with it to survive. To be what we call breathless, blown away. Sadly, blown away. Sometimes, we feel as if it's a must to be the same and mandatory to be different. It has always been the earth- in our sight- tricking our minds.