Proztheturtle

i always thought that i was an emotional cripple and that my problems could probably be solved easily if i knew how to laugh properly. but when i back up and think about it for more than a minute or two a day my problem becomes more about money and less about emotion. for example, if my family was to get one hundred extra dollars a month we'd be able to buy more food and my brothers would stop complaining. if we got two hundred, we'd be able to pay more bills and eventually we'd be able to fix our van which is sitting in a parking lot. if we got three hundred, we'd be able to fix the house and the electricity in my room would be fixed

there are days when i miss the feeling of summer when the sound of winter winds makes my heart clench because i have realized that the one month of late nights and countless moments of inspiration are gone and i find myself wondering if maybe those nights were all we had and there's this chance that the friend syou've made during the roughest of rough times are the ones who will be there for you now... i'm too afraid to ask if i'm your best friend because i don't want the answer to be no i want to hold onto those elusive summer nights the ones we had before our world began to crumble like sugar in our hands the ones that still leave the t

i am the little girl, screaming for her father, dreaming of her mother, too wise for the world. i am the restricted wind, caught in the alleyway, blowing the papers heavenwards, bound in earthly shackles. i am the image in the mirror, crying because you don't, incomparable and alone, i am you and no one else. i am the whispers, keeping you from sleeping, controlling the razor blade, cutting through your shallow skin. i am the god and the devil, the one you pray to in the night, merciful and horrible, you tremble in my presence. i am the cry and the girl, too scared and too weak, calling for a hero and a madman, save me

 The deep yellow colours of the small office area reflect the dim light sitting on the wooden desk directly across from where I sit. Between the desk and I sits a man of middle age, with a retreating hair line and a neatly trimmed beard, to my calculation's he's no more than forty years old. On my left sits my grim father, exhausted from our long wait and staring at nothing. It is only the three of us in the room, yet the sound of voices in my head telling me to reach for the door makes it worse. The silence encourages them, letting their sickly sweet voices reach for me. They whisper everything to me, and to my regret I listen to them. One

to tell you is a crime reality is non-existent underneath my skin the cold is sinking in hell is freezing over deep down inside everything is wrong put me under reap your reward extract the change stop the cycle store it all away into the darkness over time numbness sets in liars you make except when it's me alone is a way to verify the feeling evaluate my condition never promising only trying don't try it's near impossible to know why my mind is caving in

"You aren't good enough to be my friend." Those were the last words Ben said to me before he disappeared. Eight words full of so much hatred and pain that even now I still shudder when I think about them. Ben was my closest friend, even though we came from different places. He had a troubled past, one that I wish I could say he could talk to me about, but in reality it scared me. Drugs and criminal activities had always been the foundations of his life, that he had problems with all if it never should have surprised me. I on the other hand was a good girl, with a loving family, good grades, a few friends and I'll admit it, money. We met bac