I feel like I cant be myself because I can almost feel people judging me and I know Im not good enough.
I feel like people laugh at the awkward freak behind my back.
I feel this red burning pulsating anger that I just cant get out.
I feel all this love for him and its confusing and new and I dont want to make a fool of myself because I care so much what he thinks of me. I care too much what everyone thinks of me.
I feel a spiky little turmoil of fear digging into my insides, twisting away into my stomach and tugging at the back of my throat whenever I think about the future. And I feel a splinter of regret pi
Convoluted thoughts congeal into hard, square pixels beneath my fingers.
Black cubes twist into metric tangles,
A Tetris web of sweet and sour nothings
As I struggle and strain to give you these pulsing feelings
Pushing them into inadequate words,
Forcing them into binary codes to be passed down fibre optics,
Squeezing them from my throbbing cursor.
I want to reach up, stretch high, my fingers grazing the roof of the world, smudges of chalky blue on my knuckles. I want to grab the clouds, and pull them, tease them, tugging the wisps into shapes, so we can lie together, with the long grass pricking at our arms, our legs, our entwined hands, and gaze for hours at the sky and make creatures and letters and symbols.
I want it perfect.
I wish I could grasp the stars. They would be cool in my hand, like glass baubles, and they would glow through my fingers and throw twisted shadows everywhere. And I would put them back in the sky rearranged into spirals and curls that would swoop and turn an
The light had a thick, honeyed quality, but it was sharp with cold where it touched my skin. The golden syrup that was spilling from the pinkening sunset, leaking rich colours into the sky, as if smearing the glossy liquid in sticky stains across a watercolour background, mixing the colours until it was hard to see where the orange became the impending velvet blue of night. This painting obscured at points by grey clouds, which we twisted into fish and six legged kangaroos.
Your skin was pale in contrast, shadows cast over your face by the setting sun, but the edges of your cheekbones and the side of your forehead and those surprisingly deli
None That Go Return Again by Kat-Scribbles, literature
Literature
None That Go Return Again
The mud dragged him back, clinging to his knees and elbows, sucking at his torso as the Private crawled on his empty stomach through the mire. A shell wailed over head and he froze, his khaki uniform blended with the pitted sludge all around him. Terror pounded through him and he thought of his wife and three children at home, he would never see them again, surely the enemy would get him this time. His breath caught as the shell made contact and exploded, expecting the splitting pain of shrapnel. The night behind him was thick with screams and he whimpered in relief before realization hit him in the face. That was his trench. Those were his c
Current Residence: Kent; Garden of England deviantWEAR sizing preference: 6 Favourite genre of music: Rock Operating System: You what? MP3 player of choice: iPod Video ^-^ Shell of choice: Those swirly pink ones you find on white sand beaches Wallpaper of choice: I prefer to paint my walls (currently blue with big clouds) Skin of choice: Mine I suppose, tanned with a few freckles Favourite cartoon character: Wilt from Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends
Favourite Movies
V for Vendetta
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Say Anything
Favourite Games
Guitar Hero III (the only one I play, except Save the Sherriff)
Tools of the Trade
Laptop, Microsoft Word, a big thesaurus and boiled sweets
Hello everyone...
I was getting a bit tired of the name Emo-Marshmallow, as it was rather cumbersome.
So here's my new accout *cue applause*, welcome.
Until I've copied everything from my old account to my new one, I'll be using both *panics just at thought*
Knock yourselves out...