A deep pain crawls just to the edge of perceptibility, raises its hand and begins scratching a cracked nail on my eyes. A small wound is formed, he doesn't gouge - it's almost gentle the way he works. Blood threads a path from my pupils to the gathering pools in the corners of my eyelids. Once he has scratched to where there is no blood left, pain's hand lowers and tears visible only in complete darkness seep to the surface and run down my face. Now I feel it. Now it is almost foremost in my consciousness. Strange to be sad, but I want to hold onto it. To taste it. To somehow savor its presence.
I lie in darkness and pray that tears only angels can see will bring quiet peace.
The musings, laughter, anguish, and tears of a Stickman living the life drawn for him by the Artist. "I must learn to serve the Artist first, His pen directs my path. He breathes life into these worn-out sticks, And stickmen will see at last."
About Me
- MRJ
- Poor. Student. Firefighter. EMT. Kind. Optimistic. Shy. Dreamer. Fool. Happy.
3 comments:
you sound like you're dying. Please don't die. You'll miss Narnia tonight.
Yes, I have a blog. Isn't it amazing? Ha, I wouldn't think I would be the blogging type. Oh, and the reference to the deep, moving, talented writers who bloG that I made in my last blog, that was about you and my brother. I don't understand what you say half the time. :)
I have the same problem, although I enjoy reading it even when I can't understand it.
basically...that was sick, disgusting, and creepy. on the plus side, it was very well written! bravo on making something so truly twisted into art.
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