PurpleLegolas

That one guy. That one guy with ripped jeans and a white shirt that smelt like lemon and lime. That one guy whose voice melts into you with that zesty orange tang. That one guy you couldn’t have. That one guy with silky black shoulder length hair and mocha skin. That one guy with smooth milk chocolaty eyes, and a smile that caused a hurricane in your heart. That one guy, that one guy… …you just couldn’t have.

The teacher hands me a pencil and paper. All the other kids in my class draw rockets,spaceships and their future selves. I draw our planet in 50 years time, It's on fire, it's been burnt and we've been buried alive. There are no rockets or spaceships, No aliens and no future you. I guess that's our lesson learnt, but what can we do? We could stop nuclear wars, silence opinions, Hush hypocrites and kill religion. People may not agree, and that's just fine. But don't come crying to me when science and facts prove it was all a lie.

i'm living a life of lies. i'm living a life of sighs. i'm living a life of pain, destruction and rain. i'm living a life of misery and chaos and an increase in body weight. Because of you, Mr. Depression

I'm that girl next to you in class that you try to ignore or balance whiteboard rubbers on - or maybe laugh at me and call me a nerd just because i'm smarter then you. But I don't get praise or friends. I get punished. I get slits on my wrists and pinch marks on my hands and bullies telling me I don't belong. Maybe I don't and maybe I cry into my school desk in class and keep a straight face and don't talk, but i'm just scared of you and everyone else telling me this and stabbing me in the back. So thank you for making me a nervous wreck that twitches and sobs every time I even step foot into Starbucks, thank you for making me scared of human

There are things I can't erase. They are glued in the back of my mind. They drive me crazy, keep me up at night. Most minds are peaceful with butterflies and stuff. But my mind is a war-zone with people blowing up. I can hear screaming and try to cover my ears, but it's easier to wipe away a tear then washing away a scar. The thoughts build up like a collage with pictures and places, but I can't throw any of it away because they're stuck. Stuck. Stuck in my mind. Why not yours? Or hers, or his? But no. They're in my mind and in my mind they'll stay.

Ombre Rouge One frosty February morning I put in my satchel: a blunt crafting knife, my art portfolio (from work because it’s my work bag), a cheese and ham sandwich wrapped in Clingfilm and, subconsciously, a picture of my dad. It had been years since I’ve thought of my dad. His thick shaggy moustache; the way it twitched uncontrollably when he was nervous or excited and his huge size seven suede-tasseled slippers. But things became different when he died, it all happened when there were reports of animal attacks one (full moon) night on the news. Later the following month he went out to get something from the shops, most likely