Last Will and Testament
Laid out on this dusty desk is my long life.
All would be disbanded if not for the new papers laid out.
Sad that all my accomplishments could be dissected to my wife.
Tough it will be for her, this my final attempt at comfort before my life will be snuffed out.
Wondering and mental plagues withering what health left, gone.
Inlaid worry set upon my mind that day of sun, white, and doves.
Lay in bed that night I did, falling in sheets with a moan.
Laying but shifting to view the woman of devotion and unending loves.
All thought focused on the past and deeds and words not explored.
Night has long set, shortened the day, as every day/time I lost with her.
Desperate my mind and heart is to recall that lost time, and soon.
Twenty years ago, I remember, how we celebrated our bond of fortyth.
Excellent memories I could recall of our journey, but still longing for more.
Suffering, I can recall, she went through to give our children birth.
Touching devotion and care we have shared throughout our
Loss of the Wife
She watched him cry at the side of her bed.
He had watched her fade away.
She had felt her body succumb to sickness, nothing to plead.
He had noticed her health in a unequal balance, sway.
She had made her wishes known to him.
He had told her of his promises.
She knew her time was on Death's whim.
He had refurbished everyday her room, with roses.
She had asked him of the flowers.
He replied that her life were tied to the rose's.
She knew of his daily replacements while she had her showers.
He loathed life's ways, for he would soon add her to his loses.
She stares into his swelled eyes, and grabbed his trembling hand.
He reluctantly looks back into the glacially icy eyes of death.
She can feel the chill of death in her hand envelope his in reprimand.
He tries to pass a little warmth and comfort from his lips to hers, a final gift.
She knows she will soon pass and leave him.
He notices a rare shift from her body.
She whispers into his ear, "I love you, and now I must give into his whim."
Pain in my head from all the commotion, confusion, and the people combusting.
Pain is inflicted by being strapped into a chair of life unable to escape.
Pain surges through passageways, like blood through veins, into the chamber of outbursts.
Pain which dulls the senses, like alchahol with drunks, till the "hang over" wears and it hurts again.
Pain side effects to others collaterally and we must watch it with our eyes, burn our kindred.
Hurt is felt through out, feelings, heart, and mentality.
Hurt is a thrice vice that's as plain as a bowl of rice.
Hurt is the flame that burns our skin, however cruely leaves our nerves intact.
Recession sets in, decending into a inner darkening of the mind.
Recession back into dark pits of long, lost, forgotten hells...revisited.
Recession into a self shaking, damning, and confronting spell of splintering guilt.
Torment of demons and vices setting in upon an unsuspecting person...
Torment lashing out, succubuses scouring, hounds tearing...
These Verses Hidden
The pain that is felt, the overshadowing stress and reluctantcy...
How it bares, wears, and tears at your body...
Enslave it into your heart, hide it beneath flesh, blood, and muscle...
Serenity and perserverance is all that awaits...
Easier it is to hide, then to charge fear...
Valiantly you comtemplate your options...
Every second destroying you little by little...
Restoring yourself is all that you want...
Stupended as to how...
Easily it is enough to lie to yourself...
Showing only the subliminal when it is to late...
How you realize your mistake...
Incredibile how it has caught up to you...
Destroying, desecrating, and manipulating you've become to yourself...
Denying yourself the serenity you once felt...
Eradicating all self pride and honor...
Never to go into the light of men again...
The Ungrateful Damned
Watching from abroad, experiencing and bear witness to the torments of bastards
Soaking in the scrutiny of a man already cursed and afflicted with torment of past deeds
Imagining the screams and visages of past actions, watching faces of attorned bodies
flashing behind closed eyelids.
To hold these "crimes" inside now, not knowing whether he had done right or wrong, afflicting
his very threads that hold his mentality and bodily frame intact.
To watch flocks of anger, revenge, pain, fear, and insanity unleashed without regard upon this one person, is this right?
To bear witness to persecution to those who once regarded and promoted his actions, now to be crucified by times' sway of mind.
To hear the cracks and personal transgressions purged from his body, to see the bewilderment in his eyes...
To be able to unrelate, to be unable to recouperate, to be unable to ressucitate the inner fire that once burned in those eyes.
To know that he once took life on a daily basis to protect us, to ke
Alone. With Her.
To just be near her, to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her tight.
To embrace her body, and kiss her back, feel the tingle all over my whole body.
To pull her body close to mine, to embrace the moment, when all feels right.
To let her body greet your hands in a moment of lust, in a pure form.
To feel your skin heat in the perfect example of all that is passion's.
To feel the mind and body meld into the perfect form of love.
To feel the pleasure go from your hand to her body as they became companions.
To feel her cut loose, untamed and ferocious, to let herself go into you, and her looking like a dove.
To know she cares about your bodily, emotional wants.
To know She's willing to risk a little of her body, to you to handle with care.
To know she will always care for you more than a host of servants.
To know she trusts you not to viciously desecrate her body, which is so fair.
To give her pleasure back with your body, to kiss her in the places she enjoys.
To give her hands free roam, to
Woman That Kills Her Insides
She doesn't know why she does it, what it is that compells her. All she knows
Is the pain that infests her insides, outside that door, in the dank hallway.
Time after time, this woman comes to this building, when she just needs those blows.
Time makes the signs go away, and once again she'll venture back, just like a stray.
Into the room she goes, dark, mysterious, and blustering with past deeds of pain.
In this room lays her master, her master's gift, and her undying need.
She knows what she is about to give up to her master, yet again.
Going to let the master's greed and lust penetrate her, as a price for the master's feed.
False happiness, false feelings, do overdose her in a way that is tart.
Lights come on and she begs for the gift, the small, daint white gift.
Tis the gift of happiness, fuel for her life, all that is left of her frail heart.
And just like that she will go into the hallway and leave, sacrificing all for the gift, all innoncence taken, swift.
Home she will go, unlo
Fuel the Minds: The Thereafter
Time ends, but time is unending.
Time sacrifices but does not lose.
Whether when we die, descending or ascending.
Life lead, life not done, life not started, we cannot choose.
How can our life, our time end, but all still continue?
How can something as little as us, fall off life's ride?
And the ride not stall, falter, or halt? How can it continue down the avenue?
Are we just fuel for the ride, are we just to disappear and hide?
What is at the ride's stop that we are forced off?
Is it a road, town, forest? Or is it as we fear, just dark.
Anger do I receive when people don't care of this. I can only scoff.
Are we just here to rot, seep into soil, and fuel a new tree's bark?
Can we decide what is to happen at or after our end?
Is there a place that we can find this answer?
Has someone made it to a hereafter? Have they left us a sign of around the bend?
If there is and I can find it how am I expected to believe, am I to infer.
Can I get a taste? Can I take a taste? What do I do if I brave
There he sits, awake in bed much like the past seven hours.
There he sits, the daily fears infringing on his nightly freedom.
There he sits, sweat about his brow. Eyes wandering.
There he sits, greatly feeling the effects of a week with no sleep.
His mind wanders toward his fears, but always cowers.
His mind feels his sanity seeping away, into the night.
His mind can hear the ticks of the clock, even though it's digital.
His mind seems to process stuff ever so slowly.
Limbs, cold and immobile, lacking the energy to function.
Limbs used to be full of strength, now barely support him.
Limbs that used to be tools now just painfully cramp.
Limbs that can now relate to the mind, ever so slowly functioning less.
Self, as a whole, seems failing. Slowing down, eventually will stop.
Self, as a individual, seems lost, confused, and sickly wandering.
Self, as self, seems disgusted, mad, hatred, but to no object.
Self, as nothing, seems resilient, happy, relieved, but distant.
Bones do ache, now w
An extension of How not to Write Love Interests“Faith, in the sense in which I am here using the word, is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods.” - C.S Lewis
This quote is about faith not love, but you can see how the same logic applies. If faith is not merely to "feel" as if you believe something, why should love be merely to "feel" that you like something?
In the end, faith is remembering you have reason to believe, and love is a choice about how you treat someone. Feelings are irrelevant. They are passing. They are constantly changing, and that's natural. They can indeed play a role in our decisions about relationships, but are a fickle factor to base an entire decision off of. It's like building a house on the sand. We're human beings with intelligence, and there is no such thing as a feeling so powerful we HAVE to act on it-that is fantasy.
What about circumstances? What about age? Can it ever be simply a waste of time?
On my last deviation, people arg
Writing Tips, Finding A MuseI've read a lot of tutorials on how to write and about one or two on overcoming writers block but none have really helped me in the past. I'm not the best writer in the world, but I'm going to give you some tips on approaching writing and some cures for those bloody annoying writers blocks!
1. Beating Writers Block And Finding (New) Inspiration:
1a. Bouncing Idea's/Chat To A Friend
1d. Extreme Emotional States
1g. Prompts/Time Limits
1h. Real Life
1i. Take A Shower Or Bath
1j. What Ifs
2. Approaches To Writing:
2a. The "Wing It" Approach
2b. The "Thought out" Approach
3b. Character sheets
4. Other tips:
4d. Spell checker
1. Beating Writers Block And Finding (New) Inspiration:
It happens to everyone and they are a bitch to get rid of. I've come up with ten ways to try and get the creative juices flowing, they have all worked for me but they may not for you.
Rogue (WinterSoldierxChild!Reader) One-ShotViolin music along with the gentle sound of a piano’s melody was heard over the video of the girl that was on the large, plasma screen before them. The Winter Soldier looked at the child with a quizzical expression on his face. His eyes squinted down on your closed ones, that hid the blank (e/c) eyes that he had seen once before they dragged you in here.
“What’s with the music?” Alexander asked baffled as he strolled into the room.
“She asked for classical music to played, sir,” one of the agents responded. “It apparently calms her.”
“Well that makes sense. We do want her calm,” he said.
You were supposedly an experiment gone wrong. Created by mad Russian scientists, you eventually rose up against them and went rogue. Judging by the many scars and needle marks along your arms, the Winter Soldier could see that they had tried their best to keep you under control. That didn’t stop you however.
The powers they had given you