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Epileptic sensualists“Hellfire awaits you” tiny naked women danced around her when she came back. And she laughed. As if the gods didn’t know that sensuality was part of her? She played around with her long hair still around her beautiful face.
She looked at herself in the mirror, putting kajol on, rolling her tongue over her lips, seeing her soft thin lips getting wet and shining; she looked at the shape of her body, the round bulges, the subtle curve till her torso and her slim legs. Delighted in her voluptuousness, she laughed as a crackling sound mingled with her laugh. Astonished, she turned around to see an old hag of a man laughing. He was more of a silhouette but from what she could see, the man was revoltingly hideous. “You belong to me now, my love!” The crackling sound tore her ear drums. “Who are you?” She moved away. He moved swiftly and overtook her. There was a sound of crackling of her bones, a convulsion and his laugh. There were shadows, som
United states of corrupted mindsThe sensualists, the sadists, the broken the corrupted of the lot. Vagaries of nature and its cruel jokes on human mind. The disoriented eyes, the shameless behavior, devoid of inhibitions you walk huddled together you vermins of the world. There you can see her exposed bosom and the dark pink disgusting lipstick on chapped lips. She has returned like a ruffled bitch which has been with tens of dogs. The bulge under whatever is left of her dress is either going to be reduced to blood after an abortion or will soon materialize into another of those dead bastards.
That man with disoriented eyes, touching himself in the middle of the road is another one of them. His kurta and shalwar have stains of mud and oil. His overgrown beard is entangled like a mesh of steel wires. He doesn’t care if that lady in the car is disgusted by his utterly inappropriate behavior. A man passing by spits at him and swears at him.
That pockmarked face boy has ran away from home. The peeping tom was
A womanSome women are only women by nature. Not wives, not mothers. Just women. And they delight in their womanhood.Reproduction to them is the death of their femininity.
Why is it so unnatural to imagine that a woman abhors her child. She gets stuck in the menstrual cycle while she is still in her frock and plays with dolls. The little bastard is ever ready to come out if some child molester decides to fuck the little girl. There is always a chance.
Now then when she turns into a beautiful teenager, she can't be promiscuous like her male counterpart. The small piece of crap straitjackets her sexuality. She has to suffer the intense pain of menstruation every month and gets sick and nauseous every time. She has to throw away lumps of clothes soaking with her own blood, she has to flush her blood. It is like she is flushing her dead baby, which she could give life to had she chosen to sleep with a man. The little mean th
Die my darlingDie, will you, please?
Can I kill you, please?
for us both it is not a bliss
but at least you will die
leaving me alone
craving for sun to scratch my ugly darkness
till it turns to red
the crimson red, the color of your blood on my knife
or on yours, whatever you wish.
But die, please. Pretty please with cherry on top.
Letter to the belovedDarling - thank you for all you have done. If ever in my bearing you encountered any bitterness, please know that it was all well-intentioned and out of my unchecked loving expectations of you. My dearest no day ever did or ever will fade away the tenderness and love that I feel towards you.
Sweetheart you may not comprehend my love fully but know that as long as I am alive I have the longing to be safe in your arms. See my love, its hard when one has experienced completeness and then one has to let go of it. I can not explain fully but I know dearest that you'll understand it for have you not always understood me?
My beloved, I have thought about what you said and I am in complete accord with you. Sometimes even though you love someone the most, you just can't be with them. And in that know that I have acquired meaning of love. Mortality of the beauty makes one love and I love you in all the brief spasm of completeness.
Not a day passes, not a place I go keeps me from remembering y
One eye cries One eye laughsQuietly does she ascend from the well with thousand snakes.. Naag devta follows her.. obsessed with her every move.. charmed by gaiety of her manners. She walks with her long brown hair trailing behind her on the coarse ground. She chuckles and her delicate voice chimes through the old deserted city. Femme fatale that she is, the people of the city told tales to young men of the countless unsuspecting victims of the enchantress, the snake-woman that resided in the well. She knew, she knew all, for those objects of immolation could not escape the Goddess. She knew and she laughed knowing nobody could combat the temptation. She didn't allure, that was beneath her, no, she was sin herself. Where could the man run from a rogue god unless some other god would save him, but don't we all know gods don't speak, they do not intrude on man's behalf. They are silent diabolical spectators laughing at the silliness of people heaving bundles of prayers, deriding the expectation of imbecile human tha
I know I'm damned Godoverpowering sorrow... makes me scream and cry at times.. while i'm crying i hear weird sounds of creaking coming from inside me.. shattering and creaking and sounds of metals thrown on ground with full force.. or complaints of the old women in a vague shaky language.. I scare my reflection
I am damned and I know
I smell of roses though
like a bride on the first night absorbs the smell of roses around her on the bed
or a dead body covered with itr('pure' perfume) and rose petals...
I scare my reflection..
I am damned and I know
I smell of roses though...
Fucking Bedtime storiesMy rapist told me the best bedtime stories. He told me tales of sadhus(mystics of India), their love for the supreme being, the spiritual journey that ends in salvation, the journey to discover impossible, to solve mysteries unknown. His hand would move down my spine and keep fidgeting on the hook of my bra and I'd innocently look at him thinking its to make me sleep. I'd put my head back on his shoulders lovingly and close my eyes. He'd kiss on my head slightly, and then my cheeks, my eyes, my nose(lol he called it nosy) and then my lips. He would keep telling me stories... He told me a story of a bookish stepdaughter of a sadistic army officer, Ofelia. Ofelia found out that she was a lost princess of the Underground Realm. According to the faun she meets, she was curious about the world above so escaped to the Earth, where she forgot her past. Ofelia's mother conceived a child and was severely ill. The faun tells Ofelia of a way to restore her mother's health: placing a mandrake root
naked raceSilently looking at the naked corpse beside the old sewage pit at the far end of the slums.. bruises at her rising-tomb like breasts.. the right breast has cigarette burn on the pink taut nipple ... once her bosoms must have been supple and beautiful... oh but they are still as beautiful... the charred patches just seem to adorn her private parts.. they add a teasing mystery to her otherwise bare brutally denuded body... she must have had put a lot of struggle... there still remain blood drained dregs of her clothes scattered around... she is around sixteen since the rest of her unscorched body is still supple with signs of youth that were yet not drained out of her even after the excruciating torment she must have had to put with... she is lying there as if she is still gestated in the mother's womb... its as if she is attempting to contain herself.. her beautiful bare disfigured legs all crawled up to her bosoms... she has a serene grace on her face though... she is drained in blood
Dobry uczynek-Co pan robi?-zapytał chłopiec mężczyznę, który siedział na ławce. Łokcie oparł na kolanach, z ust sterczał mu prawie już do końca wypalony papieros.
-Wiążę węzeł-odparł i powrócił do wykonywanej czynności. Sznur był gruby na końcu zawiązany w szeroką pętlę, jegomość dla sprawdzenia pociągnął za koniec powrozu, pętla zacisnęła się natychmiast. Facet zadowolony z efektu, uśmiechnął się półgębkiem, wypluł niedopałek papierosa na trawnik, przykryty cienką warstwą śniegu, po czym natychmiast wyciągnął następnego, wsadził do spękanych ust. Zaczął obszukiwać kieszenie w poszukiwaniu zapalniczki bądź, zapałek. Wreszcie wysupłał pudełeczko z zapałkami, zgrabia
Not Drowning, But FlyingHidden deep within the jungle, far removed from the outside world, there lay a village. On the night of the Festival of Colours, the villagers would paint their bodies in all the raiments of the Earth and Sky and dance long into the night. They continued in this way until the Outsiders came. They were men in white cloth, who led cattle and cut down the trees so their animals might graze. Then there came hunters, who carried rifles and stalked wildlife for their flesh and hides.
A boy called Bharu lived in the village. His mother had come from the Outside and even though she had taught him their language, she had given up that world to join the village. However these Outsiders did not change, they offered the villagers weapons and medicines, but the boy was afraid. When his father called the villagers together, he told them they must accept these Outsiders and the gifts they brought. Bharu wept, for if his people joined the Outsiders, they would be themselves no more.
He ran to th
Am I going insane?I can, only recall one time feeling like this, with my head, my thoughts...slipping away from me. You see, I know I am losing it, that I am going insane. I can feel it, I wonder if others will notice, right now my mind is screaming at me to curl up around my heart tight and keep it safe while I lose the rest of me. I hope that I will be able to come back from this...whatever it is, I truly hope so. But..right now I am not so sure, if I am fully honest with you, to those reading this. My heart, my feelings, my love is entrusted to my most special person, my Kin'va. I..pray that she will hold onto me, help me through what I can feel coming. My thoughts already start to scatter worse and worse, I have to look farther to find them, and hold tighter to them so they do not run away from me. When I go to sleep tonight I just hope that I will wake up still me.
ContradictionMaybe I don’t understand the world,
Maybe I understand too much.
I could be so genius I look past,
I could be so clueless I never saw.
Either way, it doesn’t make sense.
Why love isn’t returned,
Why we go crazy,
Why choices suddenly change,
Why things go backwards.
People hate, get angry.
Then, someone leaves…
And they fall in love.
I don’t understand it.
Going to depths,
To bring someone back,
Who is already gone.
Why do we try?
You use selfless actions,
In selfish attempts.
It only contradicts yourself.
It’s the creator of these problems.
Philosophy.Humans are creatures of habit. We start with good intentions, and our values are always true to us in the beginning, but our sinful tendencies get the best of us, and we turn into the very thing that influenced our change from the start. Consequently, our ignorance and forgetfulness of those who made similar mistakes in the past has condemned this statement to hold its unfortunate truth throughout our existence. Forever we remain the same, evolved but still just as misinformed, trapped in an ongoing chain of misfortune. As dreary from which this allegation may seem, it is still, my belief. History has shown an unwanted pattern of gruesome occurrences, all with similar aspects too coincidental to deem so. Our obstinate behavior is the simple yet disregarded cause, and proceeding with this attitude will only lead to our predictive and premature demise. Ignorance, greed , and submissive behavior….these are the characteristics in people that cause the most obvious and potentially fo
Not A WriterI am not a writer. In fact, I am nothing of the sort. I am just a girl with an all-encompassing imagination.
It is true that I can build a story off of a sentence, but I am not a writer. It is true that I can create characters that people love, but I am not a writer. It is true that I can make stories that make one cry or smile, but I am not a writer.
But, I have to ask myself, what is a writer?
Is a writer someone who can build a story off of a sentence?
Is a writer someone who creates characters that people love?
Is a writer someone who makes stories that make one cry or smile?
It has been said I can do these things, yet I am not a writer.
No one has come to me, proclamation in hand, and declared me a writer. But does that mean I am not one? For truly, is a writer someone who can spin ballads just for the fun of it?
Whoever reads this, let me know your thoughts.
To you, what is a writer?
Waiting in Chinatown (a very short story)I’m sitting in a restaurant on the corner of two streets in Chinatown. I’m waiting for someone. She was supposed to meet me at 1:00 for lunch. That was half an hour ago. I’m starting to lose hope.
I’m sipping on some green tea. It’s okay, although I've never been much of a tea drinker. The waitress walks over to me. Her English isn't very good, but I can make out that she’s losing patience with me. It’s understandable; I've been sitting here alone for half an hour and I haven’t ordered anything except tea. I order another cup, simply as a stalling tactic.
I watch people walk by. Not as many of them are Chinese as you’d think. Chinatown in London is different from others I've been to. The Chinatown here is almost all restaurants and shops; very few Chinese people actually live here. They’re spread out all across London. There are almost as many whites, blacks, and Asians here as there are Chinese people. I like it though; it ma
Meaning of LifeWe live to learn.
Once we learn we take our jobs.
These jobs are seen as out “place” in life.
But all those jobs do,
Is make impact
For the next generation.
It’s all a loop,
That can’t be why
We individually live.
In science we’re taught,
Some animals die
So that must be it.
But, living to create more,
That will do the same,
Just to die?
Well, then no.
That can’t be right either.
There’s more, I’m sure.
But if those ideas,
Came to nothing,
Then tell me.
What is the unknown meaning?
Why do we live?
What’s the point?
Why is life a “chance”?
How did we even come to be,
And live for?
BloodThe huge bugs crawled up on her ceiling. There were ugly grey hives all over her room. She'd repaint the hives bright yellow, she thought to herself while tiny droplets of slime kept falling upon her. She feared she'd get buried in the slime of those ugly bugs. She couldn't weep, couldn't move; this usually happens when you develop a certain level of queer intimacy with your tormentors. Her long hair spread around her, with her beautiful face particularly still and her eyes fixed on the bugs, she lied there. She wanted to blink, her eyes were paining and she did; the poor dear. It could have been a moment or infinity she didn't realize, as it gave so much relief to her eyes. Buzz.. She opened her eyes to see all the bugs flying towards her. Her eyes widened and came out of their sockets while blood poured out. Her blood followed a weird course; it spurted out of her eyes, made its way down the bed in streaks, crawled on the floor zig-zag like a red snake, hopped up the wall and a
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