Mind Over Matter; doesn't.

[Featherhandcuffs]

This is just a place for me to post little blurbs of writing. Post whenever you'd like, I'll just continue posting around the comments. Fair warning, though, my stories and songs aren't the most cheerful things and I don't want to hear anything about being grossed out or offended. There will never be anything sexual or terribly gory, because that's clearly against the rules, I'm simply weird and that reflects in my writing. Steal ANYTHING from this thread and you will be sorry. I work hard on my writing, harder than I do on my drawing, and there WILL be consequences if I find out someone has been using anything here without my expressed consent.

[Featherhandcuffs]

(This is an edited version of something I posted a long time ago.)

The splatter of paint fell onto me again, saturating me in that dangerously numb sensation. It felt like novicane was blasted into my aching chest, releaving me of all pain and emotion, giving me a chance to truly think. I felt my thoughts skitter out of my skull like silken spiders, lightly brushing my arms and legs as they reached the floor. They roamed around my bedroom for a bit, chasing one another like dogs at play, but then suddenly stopped as the paint began to harden. They screeched and screeched, bumping into one another now, fleeing the translucent enemy that I couldn't see. As the paint hardened, creating a shell around me, I could feel my chest begin to tighten. It clutched at my fleash sharply, painfully. I pleaded for my thoughts to do something, to rescue me from this dreadful substance, seeing as though they were the only things around me. But no matter how much I begged, cried, screamed, they couldn't hear me over their own fear. I still didn't know what they were running from, why they were so terrified, though at the moment I wasn't really paying attention to that. I was concentrating on the way my skin began to crackle, even if I couldn't tell if it was the paint or my actual skin. It hurt, exspecially around my heart, which was eeriely silent. It was beating, but at a normal pace, which now looking back seems to be the most horrific thing. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn't the paint dry and begin to flake? It felt like years that I just sat there, being dried to the bone while the paint ate away at my outer-layers, trying desperately to reach me on the inside. My thoughts were growing more and more manic, biting and eating away at one another, confused about who was the real enemy. The translusent enemy. I could feel the dark paint seeping into my skin, into my muscels, into my bones. It attacked every cell, every molecule, until it finally reached my brain. It soaked in for a long time, finding my core, and that's when my thoughts lost all sense of awareness. They broke out into a rage, attacking anything that was attackable, destroying themselves. I kicked and called for my loved ones, begged for forgiveness and perhaps death as well, but it didn't change anything. Finally, one drip of paint hit my core, and everything stopped. My skittering thoughts disappeared, but then reappeared, though in a whole different form. They were calm, quiet...and translucent. They forced their way back into my skull, getting comfertable in the mess, and then began to change me form within. The paint seemed to disappear almost instantly; I could open my eyes. I saw a white room with a black lady standing infront of me, a smile on her lips as she said,"It seems your medication as begun working. Was that so hard?"


And that's what it's like to take my medication everyday.

[Featherhandcuffs]

The black bird sang it's heart out today,
the wind and the rain wouldn't drive him away.
He spread his wings and opened his beak,
his small mouth flowing with passion without peak.
Tears flowed in rivulets down his face,
but no matter the liquid his song never broke pace.
A long while passed until the bird was through, but when he was done he looked around and knew.
Knew that no one had seen him them.
No one heard the pain in his song, no one could sense that something was wrong.
In everyone's mind the bird was signaling morning,
no one knew it was he who was mourning.
Mourning the day, mourning the night. Mouring those who would never catch him in their sight.
They'd never see what his heart had to offer,
so instead of trying he hopped off the branch and flew farther.
Farther away, away from that place, the torrent of water still tearing down his face.
He found the river and hovered above, looking underneath him at a small white dove.
The bird cried frantically,"I can't do this anymore, can't take the meloncholy! I'm done with this world, someone strike me, dead! Cut me open, remove my head!"
Dove made no reply, just watched the panicked bird as though in a trance. The bird cried in pain,"What? Are you expecting a song and dance? Shall I tango, hop, sing a cute tune? Shall I put on yet another show for you?"
The dove ruffled it's feathers, almost bored now, it's dark eyes casting purposefully down. The young bird bellowed, thrashed in the air with a shout, as though turning a valve to let all the pain drip out.
"I will not dance for you, nor will I sing! Can't you see what pain it brings? No cares for my hobbies, no one will ever hear me out! This is why I beg you, please tear my heart out!"
The porcelain creature flew to the distraught bird, staring him down, turning him to stone. She said with a whisper that was too hot to be cold,"You'll never be good enough, all you'll ever do is quit. Coming to me now proves you only have half a normal bird's wit. Be gone you damn pathetic excuse for a soul, now down into the river, into the current you go!"
The sad, sad bird fallowed the dove's word, swooping down into the water to never again be heard. His song was forever lost, his joyous dance no longer, but the sick thing is no one missed this silly chanter.
His absence was dully noticed by the other forest dwellers, but after investigating his case was locked away in the cellars. Locked in the cellars to rot and mold, his life story becoming old.
All they found was a single white feather, perched precariously on the ground near the river. It was almost transparent and so stiff it could have clay. "No." Said an officer, sighing while saying,"I'd compare it to porcelain ."

[Featherhandcuffs]

One is the loneliest number;
look at him, standing all alone just standing there.
Wait for him to open his eyes
to see the one that waits; his desired prize

Will he ever turn around and see?
See how much he means to the number three?
She stands so tall, so patiently,
but will ever he open his eyes and, see?

Three's had it rough, you can tell,
she's about to break inside that shell.
Her hair's in knots from the days she ceased, to care
her love for One is all she longs, to share.

One is done with broken hearts,
he's tired of long nights and false starts.
He shuts the world out without a thought,
but does he know the pain he's brought?

Will he ever turn around and see?
See how much he means to the number three?
She stands in order to wait so patiently,
but will ever he open those eyes and, see?

He wakes inside and decides it's done.
He doesn't want to be the man he once was.
The digit stands and turns around,
what he finds turns his frown upside-down.
She looks at him with a little grin,
this commences the start, the beginning of a week, of, sin.

Three knows her place too well to change.
Forever looking at One's greatest shame.
Three, so odd, wondered why
One didn't see that she too was prime.
Now tearful eyes can't turn away,
staring at Two's back, knowing it's too late.

She closes her own eyes in three, two, one.

((Poem or something? Song? Don't know, but it's about numbers that aren't actually numbers but people.)

[Octember]

These are fantastic! C: I can make no criticisms, they're beautiful.

[Featherhandcuffs]

Thank you so much, I am glad you like them. ^-^