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Human Labeler "Oh my God she's so fat!"
"Look at her hair!"
"God does what the fuck is she wearing?"
That's all that's said nowadays.
Guidelines that the world must follow.
Where do we draw the line?
When will we stop labeling those who are different
and not in our clique?
The labels that we give others,
may hurt them more than you think.
Be the ArtistWith colors we paint the world.
With pencils we write the story.
With pens we sketch the imagination.
Imagine beyond your neighborhood.
Imagine beyond your country.
Imagine beyond your world.
Paint the sky purple,
draw rainbow birds flying through the sky.
Color the grass orange,
water it with flames.
Do anything, nothing, or everything.
Create. Destroy. Discover.
Change the world,
one piece of artwork at a time.
Pill Popped LoveLily
"I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up." I repeated to myself over and over.
My whole body was shaking.
I just now realized what I had done.
Ended my life.
Not yet actually but give me ten more minutes and I'll be dead.
Funny how the world will label me one last time, the final time.
I wonder how long it will take for people to find me, find me lifeless.
Find me Dead. Dead. Dead.
It's starting to sink in.
I'll be gone forever. Dead. Dead. Dead.
No Heaven or Hell for me to enter.
I don't believe in any of that shit anyway.
If there was a God he would've helped me, stopped me.
He wouldn't have let me die.
Seven minutes left.
I wish I had said goodbye to everyone.
It is the least they deserve.
"But would they even care.
No. Not my parents. Not my friends. Not anyone. Not even-"
-I would care.
How did he find me?
I sped off from school, went to my house, grabbed the pills, and drove directly to bridge.
I wasn't going to jump, I just want to see the world one last time befo
Beginning We EndHim, in the very beginning:
He is eighteen when he gets his death sentence. Unlike most death sentences, this one isn't going to send him to the guillotine or maybe the noose. Instead, it's handed to him by a doctor with very clean hands in a stark white room probably very similar to the one he'll end up dying in. And it's not the type of death sentence carried out by an impassive executor. He's essentially going to kill himself. He is dying from the inside out.
He mumbles something at the doctor, and suddenly he is on the street, a white piece of paper fisted and crumped in his hands. He's grateful it has the prescription written on it in sloppy medical scrawl, because he sure as hell can't recall half or more of the conversation he just had. All that's left are words like, "terminal" and "life-expectancy" and "5-10 years". He kicks viciously at the curb, wonders how the world can be ending on a day when the sky is blue and the clouds are full and the air is sweet.
The sun plants taun
Hide, hide, hideHide, hide, hide
Underneath my smile
My world is breaking
Hide, hide, hide
Until I fear death no longer
Since I've already died a thousand times
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger"
Hide, hide, hide
While my arms are getting slid
What doesn't kill you
Makes you wish it did.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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