Flourished for doom
The body of the soul marches on but it's stuck and it shows. Watching helplessly as the pest walks past and it's fast and it's going on, down and further beyond. Ruthless and fierce once was now in tears on ground with lust. Famless, faceless tearful wastful bastard that's hurtful. A psychopath waiting for pray to cry upon. Short end of the stick to those who sharpen around the courner, watching the beast waste time like a loner. Don't worry of those whom stuck, March on way past the past. Wengeful, hurtful, shortfull fall. The boy went back to the wisest of all.©theghostwing
Some early four thousands years ago. They said there was a sad sad gnome and belittle frowned. Down with his head in the soil and toes in the night, he kept digging further and further beyond. The dirt of the white keep afloat, further and further it went. In frustration and love he died, with each burst and thrust he reachd the sky. He had dug his grave throughout the night. They say to this day, the white white snow, still falls in interwalls of spring, summer, winter and it falls, fall, it falls - down bellow.©theghostwing#myth
You care of their opinion only because you feel something towards them. As you caren't of others words but the one you lovet, when they have got you to work so hard on improving and glimmering after all that polishing and painting, your nails, and your snails of thoughts cannot be tought off. Yet you have a soul as you stand, while you sit you're like a braindead flower, sitting so pretty braindead not seeing your own work off art, the polishing and nail painting, the hair so glimering and brushed you could've brought any man to blush. But you caret'h only of his words, because he is the one you love't. Pitty, love, isn't it?©theghostwing
Every time, you hide it like lies, faster than you cry, everytime, every, every, under the shower, touching your skin, feeling for your scars, but nothing to be seen, the wounds hide within. The boy cherished laugh when he cried for naught, lonely in a space its gray and gray but a little honey, white? Or is it yellow? Colors fade further away, walking away, he's walking away. Denial is walking away.©theghostwing
My life! Not yours!
Ever since the dawn of my crack they've been berating me, ridiculing me! Making me out to someth I bee-not'ht! Fool! A fool?! Who to saith I frown and drool while drooped in thee walkth? You not for sureth! Thy barbarian, wreaking havoc in life of mine, you're worthlesstest of crimes, lower than lies and the very night! Leave me be-eth to gnash on my own akords without your morals and green lawns, forsaken laws and petty rules in your house. Throw my beeing with the trash as you seeth me as much. But don't be gnarly with me miss! I have pride, everyone sin, don't you? Lie and you're above us all.©theghostwing
In his eyes he sees the world, glorious of making, shining in it's waking, further from darkness as its shine, it's fine. Late at night he rests while others fight, wishing the greater for losten ones. Where are they to now? Salvation or a self preserved hell only to fall? Befallen. Further down, grounded untill there wast groundenth. Deeper to pits of endless pitch, no remorse faultered, no agony deprived, sounds denied every night, every time. No life, no life. Swaying in a flash through a shortness, they call it enderless, flashed. It flashed by so grim. But not to him, its neither but all, forever tall and forever more. Forever. He so eternal, watches as the beautifully rotten wander through life. Humans sway so beautifully rotten through life.©theghostwing
Shake woman, shake as thout be possessed by evils of within, demons slaughtering away at your essense of sin, to leave nothing but perishment. Forsaked by the night, the wolf cries, at night.©theghostwing
Do you ever feel like a floating rock? So dense and moronic you defien't the flow of thee winds. The very soul that drains you away to an abyss, far from rhythm? Floating rock.. diving wood.. what's more left on thy plate? Agony? or is it food?©theghostwing
Lies are what you never will, fate is what you ever did, you ever had. Dancing in the sand while you turn to glass, full of lies, nothing dies. Cried in the night but he never did, he never will, nothing feels. Soundless hope is all he ever had, ever need, he'll ever will. Loosing hope in everything, nothingness and its enderless. Enderless, enderless and enderless.©theghostwing
I want people to think I'm dead, to be forgotten and become a ghost no one knows of, to be bleeding in red. I want to become Banksy, someone who lies in his solitude and writes away these letters in the white, as if it's my only might. Salieri when he lost his face, I want to be a disgrace, a man of no name no time and space, hiding in his dark room and writing away.. I want to be beautiful. Elegant phony of a moany fool of drooling howl, you know? Like those mindless olouds? I want to be beautiful. Like thy beautiful father Mordred, thy father so gracious he lies, in his bed of eternal life. Avalon, shine. I want to shine, I want to lie and lie. Just like your father Mordred.. like your father. I want to be beautiful..©theghostwing
A myth is a traditional story, especially one concerning the early history of a people or explaining a natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events.
--Today, write a myth to explain why it snows-- You can write the myth in the form of poem or prose.
Tag with #myth and share.
Try this interesting challenge!
It's Saturday, Mom is on fast today.Her offering to lord Hanuman.Still, she cooked.Few days back she was sick.Fever took over. She shivered.Could hardly stand. Still, she cooked.Months back it was her birthday.Everyone wished. There were gifts.A celebration and a party.Guess who prepared the feast.On Mothers' day she cooked.On Fathers' day she cooked. When she was pregnant she cooked.On the day she delivered me,She must have cooked.Maybe when the nascent earth wasBorn. When the planets aligned and The big bang happened.Even then she must have been cooking.Through the world wars and Through terrorist attacks.Through earthquakes andVolcanic eruptions..Even when my father abusedAnd when I made her cryShe still cooked.Maybe that's how she expresses.See how conveniently I say that.She cooks when angry.She cooks when she's sad.She loves me by cooking.The salt is perfect even whenShe hates. Global warming hasn't stopped her.Neither has the feminist movement.Maybe the future of flying cars andSarcastic robots will make her wonderAnd make her laugh and she'llStill cook.One day she will die and In her own funeral she'll be Compelled to cook.And that'll be last meal The world will ever have. #once #pod #wod @writersnetwork @miraquill #mom #mother #mothersday #womenc @writersbay #portrait
Mom Always Cooks©unsung_seagull