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The streetlights hold secrets.Illuminating a secret world, A softer world. Where the bustle stops And the hustle slows The soft yellow glows.The streetlights hold secrets.
On calm winter nights In the stills of the silence The snow comes alive In that circle of light.
Where the bustle stops And the hustle slows The soft yellow glows And the shadows sleep.
by ~fuzzy-snails
ImmortalsTime ticks by, the seasons change, Relentless.Immortals
People age. live, love, grow, die, Change.
The march of life goes on. But... Does anyone ever get left behind?
Could it be that
someone was forgotten?
A lost soul left Timeless.
by ~fuzzy-snails
Here.Here. You are here. Every part of you just as concrete as the balcony you stand on. Leaning over the edge,Here.
To catch a thrill?
To catch your death?
Pondering the words from a friend you’ve never met, Perhaps not even a friend, but an idea. A dream.
A long lost forgotten hope that there is something better out there. But you’ll never find anything if you’re not looking for it. But isn’t it easier?
To stand back and watch?
To let other people capture their dreams.
While you try and catch just
by ~fuzzy-snails
Favourites
St Peter's Gates He passed peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by his family. He was not an old man, exactly, but he had gone far beyond the limits of youth. He had liked to say “I’m not over the hill, exactly, but I got one hell of a view.” And so he did again, staring in slack-jawed astonishment at empyrean ivory towers and gilded streets bustling with the all manner of activity, as men and women of every shape and color passed smiling and nodding to one another, beautiful monsters of pure light and dove feathers palavering by street side, then silently springing into the air and rising, fluid, like some great shining legendSt Peter's Gates
by ~ivannikolayevich
Cat Wranglin' The lanky southern skeleton fired a spear of tobacco juice through one of his many, many missing teeth and pulled the brim of his ten gallon hat lower, shading steely eyes. “I said, you ever wrangle before?” “How does… how do you go about wrangling?” The boy asked. He was sixteen and as thin and lanky as the man, but lacked the critically important Yosemite Sam mustache and cowboy hat, instead opting for a child molester Juggalo crustache and a handful of gooey hair gel, which smelled, beneath all the astringent artificial chemical sharpness, of old mushrooms and semen.Cat Wranglin'
by ~ivannikolayevich
The Creaking The insistent demon creaking had begun as soon as Riley opened the front door. He could feel the vibrations in the floorboards beneath his feet, as if some invisible force, great and terrible, was toeing the line between this world and the next, trying to burst through the polished wood and establish itself as corporeal despite a negligible physicality. This seemed especially appropriate, as that was where the body had found its final resting place. “Detective Harper,” a fat, balding middle-aged man in a canvas trench coat said on the doorstep. “This is Detective Collins. Think we could come in, have a look arThe Creaking
by ~ivannikolayevich
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: In between
- Interests: Videogames, nonsense, mallarky.
- Favourite genre of music: Punk/Ska/Classical
- Favourite artist: my friend Jenn
- Favourite poet or writer: Robert Frost
- Shell of choice: Conch
- Favourite game: Pokemon
- Favourite gaming platform: Nintendo
- Personal Quote: "Not Really"
- Tools of the Trade: Boredom, writing instruments, perseverence
- Email: shotgun_suzie138@yahoo.com
- AIM: fuzzy snails13
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