Once on a piece of yellow paper with green lines he wrote a poem..
i. hate. school.
Practical Art Assigment due next term.
Ancient History speech.
Advanced English essay.
Extension English analytical response.
Photography research task.
Drama speech.
All due next week.
gah.
Anyway, I wrote this a while ago.
It is only a faint whisper of broken wings, just the crisp smell of burning words, the embers of a long ago fire; the flames have been quenched for years. There was sunshine once, and laughter from a sing-song voice. But mostly she believes there was rainbows; colours from every spectrum lighting the sky. It was beautiful once, then, only darkness. It is only now that the sky is painted scarlet, and it is that story that means the most.
It must begin, as all things do, with a season. For this story is not of summer born- it was not bred with the crystal snowflakes of winter. No. It is with the dying leaves of autumn that this story opens its scene. It is with autumn, regretfully, that the curtain closes. For her, all was autumn.
It is the colours she loved the most.
It was crimson ink that soaked her fingers that season, not black. The thick, strong aroma so deliciously ghastly; how she learned to love it. To her, there was beauty in the pages, every stroke another line of tragic verse.
In summer there had been heartache- a mother in the bed of a man who was no father, a father smelling of cheap perfume. In summer the roadside smelled of fresh picked roses- a gallant hero strewn in the ditch while a young girl cries for lost love, and whiskey. Worst of all was the horrid smell of whiskey, hidden on her tongue, threatening to show itself to the world. (She almost let it). In summer, there was no sun, only darkness. But with summer came whispered words of comfort, circling her in every damned stroke of the pen.
It was with summer, that spring was forgotten.
It was with autumn that it was remembered.
It was amongst the dusty pages of adventures bound between hard covers that she found it. There was nothing particularly exciting about it, however the soft, black leather exterior caught her tear stained eyes. (It was only later- much later- that the cold, black, interior would capture her heart). And she wrote. First unsurely, the words were not so natural to her tongue, but slowly, surely, they began to flow with ease, weaving their way onto the page, and glistening up at her, smiling such dashingly devilish smiles, that any fool would be smitten. How she laughed at the sight of such childish behaviour, and made a secret, mental note, to write of it later, because, you see, she had already fallen in love with her words, and she was forgetting.
How simple it had been to forget.
She wrote of Spain, and laughter, and choruses of choirs. It was a great love story, and secretly, she was in love with her male. She had created the picture of perfection, a story of simple beauty, but tragically, her words became too real. She was the tragedy in her happily ever after.
There was a mother and father, asleep in the same bed, a boyfriend bringing flowers, with a charmingly crooked smile plastered upon his lips, and this strange sort of girl, with black ringlets, and a sort of far off look in her eyes. But she never spoke- merely drunk in the words of others, praying she didn’t choke, when choking was inevitable.
Most of summer was unknown to her, because in her story, inked in her crimson cursive, it was autumn; the colours provoked such imagery and she loved to jump about amongst it. She would remember in a few years time what really happened, and it was with tears and smiles that she could recite the words (because words would always be her downfall her sweetest downfall)
“The soft, sad girl cried herself to sleep that night, because her mother was off with some old man, and her daddy didn’t quite smell the same. And that poor boy she thought she could have loved is just residue on some mans windscreen”
It was autumn when she had wrote those words, and she can’t remember quite why, but that handsome boy became dust on the wind, and those parents didn’t speak til the end. Her story was finished, in a rush of full truths, and it hurt her to read them like that, but she did, over, and over, until the embers of that last-summer fire had burned down.
The tears fell as easily as words, rolling down her cheeks in quick procession, and leaving her feeling quite alone, because, in this world, she was- her words were no fitting company, and her fitting company would speak no words. This is why, with the first dying sunset of autumn, she fell against the haystack and set her words alight.
With her words burning, she hears echo’s, and flitters of thought. She sees herself alone, for countless hours, scribbling in a soft leather book, and she cries out at the foolishness of it all. She had never had the gift of words, she could see that then, she could not manipulate them to present her world with such beautiful verse. It was the words that had manipulated her, had changed her. It was with words she had forgotten the sunshine before the darkness, the spring before the harsh summer. It was with words, that she had forgotten all meaning. It is with the dying of them, that she finds it again- and she smiles at the irony.
-----
She can still see the glorious reds, oranges, yellows, against the dark sky, can still smell that strangely satisfying burning, can still hear the crackling as her words slowly disappear into nothing.
And she is free; it is this fact she loves best.
Au revoir.
Practical Art Assigment due next term.
Ancient History speech.
Advanced English essay.
Extension English analytical response.
Photography research task.
Drama speech.
All due next week.
gah.
Anyway, I wrote this a while ago.
It is only a faint whisper of broken wings, just the crisp smell of burning words, the embers of a long ago fire; the flames have been quenched for years. There was sunshine once, and laughter from a sing-song voice. But mostly she believes there was rainbows; colours from every spectrum lighting the sky. It was beautiful once, then, only darkness. It is only now that the sky is painted scarlet, and it is that story that means the most.
It must begin, as all things do, with a season. For this story is not of summer born- it was not bred with the crystal snowflakes of winter. No. It is with the dying leaves of autumn that this story opens its scene. It is with autumn, regretfully, that the curtain closes. For her, all was autumn.
It is the colours she loved the most.
It was crimson ink that soaked her fingers that season, not black. The thick, strong aroma so deliciously ghastly; how she learned to love it. To her, there was beauty in the pages, every stroke another line of tragic verse.
In summer there had been heartache- a mother in the bed of a man who was no father, a father smelling of cheap perfume. In summer the roadside smelled of fresh picked roses- a gallant hero strewn in the ditch while a young girl cries for lost love, and whiskey. Worst of all was the horrid smell of whiskey, hidden on her tongue, threatening to show itself to the world. (She almost let it). In summer, there was no sun, only darkness. But with summer came whispered words of comfort, circling her in every damned stroke of the pen.
It was with summer, that spring was forgotten.
It was with autumn that it was remembered.
It was amongst the dusty pages of adventures bound between hard covers that she found it. There was nothing particularly exciting about it, however the soft, black leather exterior caught her tear stained eyes. (It was only later- much later- that the cold, black, interior would capture her heart). And she wrote. First unsurely, the words were not so natural to her tongue, but slowly, surely, they began to flow with ease, weaving their way onto the page, and glistening up at her, smiling such dashingly devilish smiles, that any fool would be smitten. How she laughed at the sight of such childish behaviour, and made a secret, mental note, to write of it later, because, you see, she had already fallen in love with her words, and she was forgetting.
How simple it had been to forget.
She wrote of Spain, and laughter, and choruses of choirs. It was a great love story, and secretly, she was in love with her male. She had created the picture of perfection, a story of simple beauty, but tragically, her words became too real. She was the tragedy in her happily ever after.
There was a mother and father, asleep in the same bed, a boyfriend bringing flowers, with a charmingly crooked smile plastered upon his lips, and this strange sort of girl, with black ringlets, and a sort of far off look in her eyes. But she never spoke- merely drunk in the words of others, praying she didn’t choke, when choking was inevitable.
Most of summer was unknown to her, because in her story, inked in her crimson cursive, it was autumn; the colours provoked such imagery and she loved to jump about amongst it. She would remember in a few years time what really happened, and it was with tears and smiles that she could recite the words (because words would always be her downfall her sweetest downfall)
“The soft, sad girl cried herself to sleep that night, because her mother was off with some old man, and her daddy didn’t quite smell the same. And that poor boy she thought she could have loved is just residue on some mans windscreen”
It was autumn when she had wrote those words, and she can’t remember quite why, but that handsome boy became dust on the wind, and those parents didn’t speak til the end. Her story was finished, in a rush of full truths, and it hurt her to read them like that, but she did, over, and over, until the embers of that last-summer fire had burned down.
The tears fell as easily as words, rolling down her cheeks in quick procession, and leaving her feeling quite alone, because, in this world, she was- her words were no fitting company, and her fitting company would speak no words. This is why, with the first dying sunset of autumn, she fell against the haystack and set her words alight.
With her words burning, she hears echo’s, and flitters of thought. She sees herself alone, for countless hours, scribbling in a soft leather book, and she cries out at the foolishness of it all. She had never had the gift of words, she could see that then, she could not manipulate them to present her world with such beautiful verse. It was the words that had manipulated her, had changed her. It was with words she had forgotten the sunshine before the darkness, the spring before the harsh summer. It was with words, that she had forgotten all meaning. It is with the dying of them, that she finds it again- and she smiles at the irony.
-----
She can still see the glorious reds, oranges, yellows, against the dark sky, can still smell that strangely satisfying burning, can still hear the crackling as her words slowly disappear into nothing.
And she is free; it is this fact she loves best.
Au revoir.