((.. this entry is not as beautifully written, as Allie's last. The handwriting is plain; Humanizing, maybe, but definitely not ever-flowing cursive. As usual, the Poems have been placed- though somewhat scare, around town, this time. The figure placing these up, was once again completely cloaked and indecipherable.)) Might there be an End? What's it take to turn a grown heart fowl? Is it the harsh words written on a page, addressed to offend and shock? The false papers handed between people which allows the dark to roam free? Is there a form of malice behind those words, its’ own living, breathing entity, Or is it the person who turns the pen into a sword to stab themselves, friends, bystanders, in the wrathful way? The eyes grow heavy on the pages, Words eating at the soul. It hurts, now. What once flowed so easily on a page, Tales of adventure and romantics, die on fallen ears. The blood spilt over the fallen and the damned fill the pages, Ink crimson as the lifeblood it seeped from. Write. The words arrange themselves on the pages before you could think of them. There’s a force beyond us, that pulls us there- The little thoughts in the back of a prickling skull. The difference between making a difference and being different, is in the eye of the writer. They arrange themselves like a horrific dance. Those words are not mine. They never were. My words were so light, once. What happened? Have they passed away? Is there too much weight to the quill? Write. There’s a hand that guides the darkest parts of our mind on the page- one after another, like we were born to put these melancholy words here. They speak, now. Speak in our ears. When we write, it stabs us. Our lifeblood replaces ink. Someone has to know, Or what was it all for? There has to be a reason for it. A reason we were gifted so. Might it be another pair of eyes, that gives us vision? Or damage, so engrained, that our heads make each other up? We were never We, But I. We or I- The quill speaks for us. Speaks for me. Are we Angry? So angry that it bleeds out onto our pages? Jump. Jump, We’ll catch you. But they won’t- Our body is failing us, now. Keep Writing. They have arranged, now. A dance, on this very page. We fight over the quill that whispers dark thoughts in our ears, a Siren we could never resist. It hurts to think, so we don’t. Frustration and Hate are so deeply ingrained, We cannot tell ‘I’ from ‘We’ anymore. Our Pinnacle. Our Ending. There is no end for us. There’s only the macabre dance. “Once, There was a Child. That child became an adult all too quickly- Given a cape, and a sword. There was no Military for him, but the harsh battle of climate with his only loved one. The loved one left him for the dirt, in time.” Perhaps we are mad? Perhaps there is Insanity to blame? And yet, I love and I assist the needful, like any citizen has a right to do. Is ‘mad’ Oh so bad, when kept under a close eye? A monster is only a monster if it is not on a leash. “He spoke with all the emotion in his voice he could muster, for a broken soul. He cared for him like the remnants of a baby bird, broken wings and barely beating heart. “You are Wonderful.” And the bird believed him.” I will continue on, as we all must. One day, I will rejoin the soil, with what I have lost. I’ve lost so many bricks, tied to me to drag me to the bottom. May I finally breathe, after so much time under the surface? “The sky was nonexistent- Replaced with endless stone, and torturous devices. Two lone, Ratty beds sat against the wall- Pray that you may keep your thoughts before the hunt begins.” I will write on. So says the quill, that eats my thoughts. So may release my heart of coal, to finally beat again. So might I never have to cry out like a pathetic child again. May they never take my hands again. There is a cry for help within us all. Make use of it, or sink to the bottom, alone and afraid. If you drift too far out, find your way home one day. Steadfast as ruins over time, we topple one by one Without structure; Without preservation. Mighty be the Warrior in armor, only to feel so solitary that he ends prematurely. Beautiful be the Rosed, until she wilts under the pressure of the expectations. Intelligent be the scholar, until he is crushed beneath society’s dependency. A mountain of lives, crumbling and toppling, might it one day be preserved indefinitely? A man is only a man, until Man makes himself many. Might there be a single one that lives Survives by my good deeds I might take joy And finally sleep. Allie ((What an abnormal, Jumpy piece. Oh well.))
