Bloody Snow AngelHeavy breaths and short chuckles escaped the lips of the crazed teen. She held up the silver blade that hung at the end of a rusted necklace. With a swift cut of the blade, the girl slit across the burning skin of her arm. Heat radiated throughout her body, a smile danced across her blood stained lips. The teen dropped the knife and it rested gently against her chest. She licked her lips as a finger traced the new wound, a stinging sensation giving such pleasure.
Removing her blood drenched finger from her arm, the teen moved to her white bedroom wall. Using care, she drew on the wall with her blood. First, a small figure of a child. Wings extended from her back like a snow angel in the middle of January. The girl got more blood and now drew a circle around the tainted angel. She drew a sharp breath as she stepped back to admire her work.
A murderous snow angel.
The crazy teenage girl let out a loud laugh as she fell back onto the stone floor. Blood drawings covered all the other wall
AngelA whisper is carried with the winds. A soft and innocent voice to be heard above the trees. The voice tells the story of false beauty and lies. Of the sorrow that comes with tears cried. A child shunned from the world for lack of understanding and innocence. To what extent a devils deal can go; bringing death and pain across the perfect land. Lies hidden behind masks of false smiles.
"Once upon a time " Isn't that how all fairytales begin? Often to end up with a happy ending? It is a shame that the story carried be the winds cannot begin with "Once upon a time" nor end with a "happily ever after." It must begin with a beginning, the telling of a child that once lived; and end with an ending, the telling of how they died.
The world was once over come by beauty and innocence. A world of harmony that was never truly there and of chaos that rested inside every heart and mind of the beings that inhabited this world. One place though, stood out from the rest. A country called Cherry Inn
PainPain sears down my spine.
My head is throbbing.
My chest is tight.
I can't see through these bloody tears.
My breath is shallow.
My knees grow weak, my legs fold beneath me.
My mind is fuzzy.
More pain shoots through my body.
I drag my heavy body through the blood stained hall.
I'm blinded by the darkness that surrounds me.
My stomach gives in,
I heave up a vile liquid that gives off a glint of crimson.
Another shot of pain.
More blood spills through my mouth.
My arms are shaking uncontrollably.
I lean forward and fall into the hardwood floor.
It pains my lungs to breathe the crisp air.
The oxygen seems to be dead set on murdering me from the inside out.
For what sin have I committed to bring this upon myself?
Try as I may, the strength to fight this flees me.
I push myself to my feet,
Willing myself to flee the horror that has come upon me.
I push against the spinning walls surrounding me,
They do little to support my lead-weighted body.
"And thou shalt never know."
The words e
The BattleLet my pen be my sword,
My words my shield.
Let the battle be fought,
The paper as the battlefield.
The blood is the ink,
That stains each sheet.
The curves and lines of words,
That are etched into the ground with the so called blood.
My sword will follow through the cut,
My pen not once hesitating.
My words will not be broken,
My shield will stay strong.
My pen protects.
My words shield.
We fight, long and hard,
Until the battle is won.
I won't back down.
My sword will not be lowered.
My shield will not be put away.
This is my story of battle.
I will write of ever action,
Of every cut made,
And of every ounce of blood shed.
My pen and words are my weapons of battle.
The paper is full of the stained ink.
There is a story behind every word.
Who's to tell them all?
The writer is who.
With her sword and shield,
She runs into battle.
Staining everything in her path.
This is her battle.
This is her sword and shield.
This is her battlefield.
This is her story.
With her pen as a