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Alone, she lies awake again
dreaming of days gone by,
and thinking of how after everything
the question she's left with is Why?

Why bring her joy if only to turn
that joy into a pain,
a pain that cuts deeper than anything
and encircles her soul like a chain?

Why give her freedom if only to take
that freedom back again?
When all that she's left with are memories,
what's she to live for then?

Why show her beauty when all that's left
is ugliness in this world?
How's she to survive with nothing more
than Chaos around her unfurled?

Why bless her life with happiness
if only to take it away?
When all that she's left with is sorrow and pain,
what's to keep them at bay?

Why grace her existence with those beings whom
she loved and thought she could trust,
if only to have them walk away
leaving her back in the dust?

And why is she left standing there
waiting for some kind twist of fate?
Is it stupid for her to want some sort of change
or is it too little too late?

© 2011 Wyn



Content to wait, she stands there silently
watching the days go by.
Anxious to move on with her Life, she pushes forward,
Hoping against Hope she'll succeed.

For every day she dies a little,
living in this cruelly uneventful world.
And as the only events that take place are torture,
she'll risk the monotony of it all.

Day by day she grows a bit more patient.
Week by week she gains more grace.
Month by month she finds more compassion
and year by year she discovers the stranger within her Self.

For she is a complex entity, an anomaly of Nature's doing.
A paradox in and of herself, she learns more
and questions all each and every day.
She yearns for knowledge and thirsts for the answers to her existance.

This is how it always has been.
How it is.
How it will continue to be each and every life she exists.

She is, after all, a paradox...

© 2007 Wyn

Sleepless Dreams

Alone I lie awake
listening to the figments of my mind
tumble and twist,
shaping into myriad thoughts and dreams within my head.

Silence all but consumes the waking hours
deafening in it's ferocity,
peaceful in it's utter static stillness.

I dream of days gone by,
I shape the future of those yet to come.
Yet the dreams that constantly ellude me
are those that continue to intrude while I am awake.

Chasing fleeting phantoms
I fall to the floor in pain-wracked sobs.
Sometimes, second chances are not given.
In my sleepless dreams, this is the epitome of truth...

© 2008 Wyn

Prompt 454

It's not what you thought, after so many weeks and months of longing. You poked and prodded, pushed and coerced until there was no choice left but to give in to your many-faceted demands.

Of course you convinced yourself from the very beginning that you did it in the name of Love, out of some Noble and Justifiable Cause that no one else could see but you. You took things, twisted them. You made them into a small and shallow bastardization of what they once were... and now? Now there's no going back.

You took something that was never truly yours to take, and then you threw it on the ground and stomped on it with all your strength. And still, the only thing you can see is your own intangible innocence. How very like you.

And for once, I'm left standing here with nothing left to say. My words, my thoughts and hopes and myriad dreams... they've been used up, displaced. There was no room for them in the life you tried to create for me; a sad little puppet without strings like some human form of a Pinocchio girl.

I wish I could hate you, loathe you, even rage out at you... but there's nothing left. No sadness, no anger, no love.


And that? Perhaps that is the greatest tragedy of all.

Sorry about the writing hiatus...

Okay. So. I've been a horrible writer as of late, I know.

For this, I apologize. Part of my problem is the fact that I've been stuck in a rut. I've let other people do the writing while I merely sat back and read book after book. Dean Koontz, for instance, has quite a few good books out at the moment. I've also ran into Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instruments trilogy. Stephanie Meyer likes them, I know, but to be perfectly honest, the books are quite well written. So I guess that kinda makes up for the fact that she's promoting them, no?

I closed myself down for a while, I suppose. To be a writer means that one must not only Observe Life, but Experience it as well. For a time, I couldn't do this. I was stuck in a Bad Way and wasn't quite sure how to flip the circumstances to become my gain rather than my downfall.

I'm Over It now, I believe.

So. Here's to more writing from this point forth. I'll be updating this journal with more things from now on, clearing the cobwebs and dusting off the filthy windowsills so as to fling the windows open and let some life back into the corners of this place.

Thanks for sticking around, guys.

The words wanted to come out, yet she couldn't find the strength to form the phrase that lay like dying promises ripe upon her lips. She struggled within herself, had to get the words out, had to reach out and just say it... yet nothing.

It was so unbearably frustrating, this unctuous silence. Words felt like bricks within her mouth, crushing her swollen tongue, her sand-parched throat. She wanted nothing more than to be free of her unwarranted and unwanted prison, yet she was at the mercy of the Fates, awaiting her destiny and trying not to think of what lay on the other side of the River Styx.

The beeping came louder now, her heart accelerating in time with the morbid tune as she thrashed about in pain and fear tinged with terror. Her day of reckoning was at hand, she figured, yet she'd be damned if it were this day.

She thrashed and mewled, twisting in utter panic-driven instinct as the beeping grew louder and more insistent.

"I saw her eyes move!"

"Yes... yes," she thought. "I'm still here. Still alive."

"Call the doctor, get him in here! I think she's waking up!"

She floated there between light and darkness, lost in a void of in between. The air felt weighted, as if she were rising from the depths of Atlantis long buried beneath the foaming sea. She struggled and kicked to get to the surface, only to be pulled back under just as she reached the intangible surface.

One last time she gathered up her strength- what remained of it, anyway- and finally, with a shout of triumph no louder than a pin dropping, she opened her eyes for the first time since the accident.

"Emily. Welcome back..."

Prompt 417

In my world things are not always what they first appear.

Words, slick and smooth glide softly along the pages and with simply a flick of the wrist, horses sprout wings and fly. I can turn ordinary people into extraordinary heroes, madmen into monsters and simple objects into ancient artifacts.

I hold the power of the gods in one palm.

I speak with a gilded tongue of gold King Midas would envy and sing Sirens to sleep.

I am an Enchantress. With simply a few words I can make people see the world through different eyes.

I am a Poet. I write of Beauty and expose the Darkness.

I am a Sage. I pass on the stories that will last a lifetime.

I am a Wise Woman. I hold knowledge and secrets of ways long lost.

I hold all these things within, yet...

I'm still simply me; twenty-three year old student, daughter and child. Poet, Writer, Artist and Singer. Magician and Nurse, Avid Reader and Fanatical Baseball Fan.

Like I said... in my world, things are not always what they first appear...

Prompt 416

They came at me; wisps of memories and thoughts. Things too beautiful and painful to contemplate yet of which I could not avoid. Sitting there alone in my stubborn silence, I willed them away with every fiber of my being, tried to bottle them up and jam the stopper in so the emotions didn't run rampant through my being...

But to no avail. Of course the memories came. Of course they'd continue to come. I would never be free of the feelings until I took them out, examined them in all of their microscopic, minute detail.

And I certainly wasn't ready to that yet. It had been days, months-years even- since I had broken down, walked away from everything that had hurt me in life and just said screw it all. For a time, I pretended like nothing had ever happened, that all the pain and sadness had never existed because he had never existed and therefore couldn't touch me if he wasn't real.

Yet all it did was pile up and grow and mutate into what I was left standing with now: broken memories and a pile of What Could Have Been. And still, I avoid it like the plague...

Prompt 415

The anxiety was too much for her to bear. Day after day, pretending to be someone she wasn't, day after day after day of endless self-sacrifice to the ones she loved and never getting anything in return...

She was hollow inside. Used up, spit out and empty. She was but a shadow of the being she once was and she was tired of it all.

Hopeless. Everything was so hopeless and drab. What little color there was left in her world was muted shades of greys and blues. And even those were being tramped down, mushed up until the colors no longer seemed to matter.

She took a deep breath, held it in... let it out slowly. She had to think, had to breathe. Breathe. Couldn't breathe. Why couldn't she breathe?

It was all too stifling, this little life others had built for her in the confines of their own interests. She was sick of it, sick to death, sick in her very soul... yet what other options were there?

Leave? How could she leave the ones she loved so much behind? It was for that very reason she had sacrificed so much and ended up in this predicament in the first place. So where did that leave her?

If she stayed, she'd slowly go madder than she already was. A quietly and unassuming insane person, she'd wake up one night and be on the front page of the morning paper as the madwoman who slaughtered her family whom she had loved so much. And nobody would understand.

Kill herself? Well, that might be one option, but it would still harm those she sought to protect, cause them untold grief and difficulty.

It was a never-ending Catch-22. If she was herself, it would cause them grief. It would completely upturn their cozy little world and shake the foundations of their marriage. Yet she couldn't continue to pretend to be so very stupid and boring. The good little conventional housewife who ironed her husband's pants and had breakfast ready at the crack of dawn... there wasn't anything wrong with that... it just wasn't her.

She was stifled, exhausted... so very exhausted. And she didn't know what to do.

Prompt 413

Give me options and I will give you choices. Ask me questions and I will make you think. Give me music and I will inspire you. Give me a pen and watch as I transform an ordinary page into an extraordinary masterpiece of literary design.

I am a sage. A poet and bard. Writer and memory-keeper of the Tales of Old.

I am One that used to be revered in Days Of Yore for my wit and measure, skills and accomplishments of the written word. We poets can change the world, have changed the world so often before.

Yet we shrink back in doing so now...

Instead of picking up the pen (which at one time was mightier than the sword), we place it in the shadows hoping that no one sees it for the dangerous weapon it truly is; it can bring about Change far greater and more efficiently than any great war of bloodshed ever has. It has the power to change the world if only we bare our Soul in the process and come at the issues with Truth and Honesty.

Maybe, then, this is why so many refuse to do so nowadays. For in baring One's Soul, you lose the Fabric of Society's Normalcy. And for so many, that in itself is terrifying...


Serenity's Hope
A Dark Serenity

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