myOtaku.com: X Shadowme X

myO Still <3's You

Vitals

Birthday
• 1993-05-02
Gender
• Female
Location
• Here
Member Since
• 2005-05-30
Occupation
• Life preserver :)
Real Name
• Belina

Personal

Achievements
• http://i204.photobucket.com/albums/bb281/Soul_Resistance/Untitled.jpg... Nuff said
Anime Fan Since
• Ever since Pokemon
Favorite Anime
• I'm not that obsessed anymore, to be honest. Mostly just Kare Kano, Ceres, Furuba, Ouran Highschool Hostclub, FMA, and, of course, ShinChan. X3
Goals
• Make it out of here in one piece
Hobbies
• Paranoia, mood swings, and the occasional emotional meltdown
Talents
• :)

myOtaku.com: X Shadowme X

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

....
In a word: Fuck.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With a choke in his heart and a glint in his eye, the poet stepped up to the microphone.
He surveyed his audience in the manner a widower might stare at his wife’s murderer right before he vengefully spliced the Hell-spawned little bastard to pieces. Nothing but bitterness and anger in his eyes. But it was not the audience the poet was angry with. No. Rather, it was everybody but the audience, for the members of the small crowd tonight were some of his dearest and oldest friends.
However, his craft demanded conviction of the feelings his words conveyed and, besides, as his gleaming, shamrock-colored gaze swept over the crowd of spectators, it was not the observers he saw before him, but the catalysts. Yes, before his very eyes, the congregation of innocent listeners mutated into the muses of the verse he was about to read. Everybody who had ever lied to him, everybody who had ever led him on, everybody who had ever hurt him… They were all right there, seated and sneering haughtily up at him from their pit. So, once again begging God to allow his copper insides to appear golden, he took a deep, terse, jagged breath and murmured into the microphone: “Oh, darling dear, is the Devil doing cartwheels again?”
In his minds eye, he could see his tormenters’ sneers falter ever-so-slightly at this.
“Because he really didn’t have to go that far to win.”
Gradually, their confident heckling became mere nervous chuckles as it grew more and more evident that their judgment day was growing nearer and nearer by the second.
“God knows with you in my heart and mind, Satin could make my stomach face-plant onto the balance beam with just a flicker of his eyes.”
From the stage, the poet could feel their heartbeats quicken and their spines start to shudder.
“So, lest you let the terror and tyranny of the truth be revealed, bring on the flattery.”
But even as the sweat of his past tormenters started to pour and their eyes began to widen in fear, the poet felt no victory. Half because he knew the tormenters’ current prescience here was just an allusion and half because he didn‘t want revenge. Revenge never solved anything. It just brought more misery.
“Dry these eyes, silence my cries, and lie to me.”
No, what he really wanted was to heal, to forget, to not care.
“Please, please lie to me again.”
What he really wanted was to never have to remember much less write about his wretched ex-loves ever again.
“Yeah, bring on the flattery, bring on the denial, because, baby, with him, I know you’ve been conceiving.”
Not to mention, his audience might’ve never tired of listening to these sordid, forlorn poems of depression and deception, but he sure as hell got tired of writing them.
“Conceiving, in more ways than one.”
Especially since, every day these feelings and reveries ate him alive, yet never had the slightest effect on the perpetrator.
“Because it’s just so obvious that you’re dying to admit that you and me and this…”
But, then again what else was new?
“Oh, this, is not love.”
He was just another kid addicted to the role of the guy who was forever caught between wishing she cared and wishing he didn’t.
“Honey, the fact of the matter is, if not for everything, we’d make the perfect fairy tale ending.”
But on nights like this, when everybody was staring up at him, anticipating and enchanted, willing to believe every single word he said without question, the fact that he was alone in a crowd full of people was honestly just fine with him.
“But you’re dying for closure and I’ll die without continuation.”
Because, despite his desperate, forlorn, love-starved poetry, he could live without romance. What he really couldn’t live without was a captive audience.
“I know all their tricks.”
Besides, if he were to be completely honest with himself, he had never even actually come close to loving his past tormenters in the first place.
“And if ever ignorance proved to be bliss, it was when I discovered it’s not worth it.”
But that never stopped him from convincing his audience otherwise.
“I could do a million different magic tricks and dye myself a new color every hour all Summer.”
In a way, he was almost addicted to exploiting his misery for the inspiration of his poems.
“It wouldn’t change a single thing: I am who I am.”
Oh, not to say he didn’t know these words didn’t change anything, didn’t fix anything. He knew. But he simply could not stop his pen from bleeding out the words onto the paper.
“So bring on the optimism.”
I guess in a way, his subconscious thought that if he was destined to be the Edger Allen Poe of his generation, he might as well reap the benefits.
“Promise me a million different outcomes and a million different ways this is for the best…”
Sure, he might die lonely and loveless, but at least he wouldn’t die unknown and unsung. Not if he could help it.
“…Then settle for another one of my famous, feigned smiles.”
But, recently, things had started to happen that had him thinking maybe, romantically-speaking, he wasn’t completely doomed after all.
“Because…”
Like, for example, that one set of eyes in the crowd tonight. Every time he looked into those eyes, no matter how hard he tried to cling to that feeling of bitterness, of anger, of injustice that was necessary for his reading to be convincing, he just couldn’t help but forget all his past victimizers, his eternal misery muses and heart-ache.
“Because…”
Getting lost for a second or two in those eyes now, the poets mind banished everybody else in the room to the far recesses of his consciousness, and, apologetically, he concluded to her and her alone:
“Because I couldn’t bring myself to ruin everything with the truth even for you.”
There was a few seconds of silence, as the crowd took it all in, absorbed every word, every feeling, every insinuation, and then: Applause. Not polite, dutiful applause, but real, sincere, authentic, extolling applause that slapped a smile right unto the poets pensive features. “Thank you,” he said to the same mascara-clad eyes, the same feminine face that he had just apologized to.
Fortunately unaware of the special attention the poet was paying her, Emily, the girl, the owner of those eyes and that face, smiled back at him, clapping and cheering with everyone else.
Tonight, as on every other night, every other day, every other moment, Emily looked so beautiful, so pristine, so Heaven-sent, that the poet honestly could’ve broken down in tears that very instant. It literally made his eyes water just to look at her, she was so perfect.
But the fact that her boyfriend, who might as well have been her fiancée they were so close, was sitting right next to her and that she was more likely to be a homicidal transsexual from Transylvania than to give a damn about the poet probably accounted for most of her perfection.
Comments (1)

« Home

Anime | How to Draw Anime | Anime Wallpapers

Top of Page