Longing (poetry?) piece based off of a prompt

I long to have ambition and to have the strength to feel the overwhelming urge to run and chase after what I want. I long to not be ambitionless and afraid; cowering in the corner like a scared dog. I take a small step forward then always get pushed back by any minor setback. I long to have goals and plans, to be able to think about my future and not feel hopeless and tired. To know where I’m going and what I want to be. I long to not wake up every day to a regular routine and never going after new things.

I long for inspiration and spontaneous ideas, I long for purpose and desires. I long to be able to push through what I’m doing and being able to finish without crying out in frustration, yanking at my hair and giving up so easily. I long for the feeling of accomplishment and feeling proud of dreams. I long to have an impact on anyone or anything and not feeling like I’ve done nothing meaningful in this measly life.

I merely long for the determination and drive that pushes someone towards something good and successful in life. I long to not feel the self-loathing and irritation as I realize that everyone around me has an ambition and talent that they’re working on or racing towards while I’m left in the dust. Standing here with nothing to hold onto and nothing to keep me going.

I try to keep up but I always end up falling down and self-sabotaging myself.

I long for the need to pursue and explore the little skills and talents I possess for a possible career and future. It's an out of body experience as I'm standing there yelling and kicking at myself to get up and do something in life yet I never listen. I'm stuck in my own mind, so terrified to step out into reality and face the consequences and obstacles. 

I long to not live by the toxic motto that it's safer and easier to not pursue and that it's better to stay where I'm at and not venture out further. 

I long to be able to grasp at the small spark that grows within me and not let it slip through my fingers and die back down then feeling so angry at myself for letting it fall and break away so easily again. I long to tell myself that next time I'll get it right yet when the time comes around I make the same mistake over and over. 

I long for the sound of clapping, cheerful voices and prideful, happy stares as they congratulate me and not the sound of lectures and disappointed tones as I hear the same thing over and over again. 

The displeased looks of peers as they wonder where I’m going in life, yet I wonder the same thing.

I long to not hear saddening and barren tones playing like a broken record. I long to not see the disappointing shaking of heads and eyes staring at me like I’m crazy.

I long to not feel discouraged and upset thinking about all the things I haven’t accomplished. I long for easy and bright days, happy mornings and a clear mind. I long to be able to make a difference. I long for everything to not feel so uninteresting and scrambled. I long to not feel like everything’s going downhill and time seems to be stuck in place and not moving forward.

I long to be something other than ambitionless, cowardly and goalless. I long to not give up so easily and to race to the finish line without stopping so often and eventually never getting there.

I’m lying on the ground staring helplessly at the finish line and it seems so far away in the distance then sometimes the line is right there yet I never make it. I long to not feel overwhelmed when things get too complicated and hard.

I long to not feel so self-destructive, helpless and hopeless with everything and everyone. 

I long to have something to believe in; I long for someone to believe in me.

Most importantly; I long to believe in myself. But that faith died out long ago.

Anger; a prose poem

Anger starts off small. It begins as a dim irritation and bitterness then slowly builds with each day. 

Anger is an emotion that’s uncontrollable; like a raging fire that can’t be stopped. It’s consuming and blinding. It’s an overwhelming feeling that can screw you over if not dealt with properly.

The rage; it’s a scary feeling. That building fire in the pit of your stomach that you know you can’t stop. It’s scary, knowing what anger can do to someone. Someone who can be soft and kind. It turns angels into monsters. It comes and goes sure, but the overall outcome is terrifying when it comes up like a volcano about to erupt.

The shaking of the hands, the grinding of the teeth, the heat building and feeling like you have no control over your body and mouth. It’s like being possessed by yourself. An ugly version of you. 

Someone you hate bringing out in public.

You let them free in the privacy of enclosed spaces with no one around that you can hurt. But sometimes, unfortunately, they slip out into the open and terrify everyone around you. Once that raging fire comes out into the public and once the people see that mess of insanity there’s no going back.

The reputation and mask that you’ve built up to try and save yourself breaks away and you become a stranger to people around you in the moment of the heat.

Anger is powerful. It’s dark red and paralyzing. It can’t be tamed or held back. The lashing out and violent words eventually sneak their way out. It turns you into a raging stallion that damages anything in its path. It leaves whomever gets into its way burnt and damaged; wounds that can’t be forgotten or healed.

The anger and rage. The terrible resentment and loathing. Wrath and fury. Overwhelming indignation and aggravation over minor and major things. Consuming annoyance. It builds up over the years and it comes out in small pieces or shows itself in an enormous explosion.

Some deal with it in minor ways and it doesn’t become a big part of who they are.

Some anger is small and delicate. It can be held back and contained. It comes out softly and in slight ways. Some anger is regular and average, the type that comes out appropriately. It’s the type of anger that doesn’t come out due to being held down for so many years. It shows in the right moment.

Others are unfortunate. The rage becomes ugly and explosive. It becomes a part of that being. All they are, all that they will be, is angry. Violent. Aggressive. It’s the outcome of pushed down emotions and hate.

Once that door is opened, it can’t be shut or stopped. It’s a building storm that’s stuck on repeat.

Seething, spitting and fuming, it’s a boiling pit of heat and trembles.

It’s always being in rotten moods, getting weird looks in public and always walking on eggshells. Just waiting for anything, anyone, to trigger and set off the ticking bomb of fury. Constantly fighting to hold yourself and bite your tongue. Constantly having internal battles of telling yourself to stop and not explode.

Anger is feeling defensive over everything and feeling physical pains and urges; some so strong it almost knocks you off your feet and makes your head spin. It’s snapping easily and pacing back and forth. Screaming in frustration when you’re alone and doing petty, wrathful things without thinking. It's a burning and endless disease that can't easily be cured.

It’s feeling hopeless and hateful of yourself as you take it out on others but not being able to stop. It’s like an out of body experience; watching it all unfold but having no control. Feeling so evil and ill.

Crazed eyes and whispers behind your back; feeling so helpless yet enraged and empowered.

Eventually, the anger and pure hate gets turned around and directs itself at you.

The strength that it takes to hold the anger back is like trying to contain and raging bull. It’s hopeless and almost impossible.

It’s simply an ugly emotion and turns once good people into a raging, bad-tempered disaster; and everyone knows disasters ruin everything in their path.

Especially when it's out of control and has built up too much. 

Lonely Dog Poem

I just found this poem that I had written when I was around 13-14 y/o for an assignment in writing camp; wish I could still write poetry because I suck at it now. kinda ironic. 

the dog roams the land;
searching for someone, a place to call home,
and somewhere to be safe.
he searches the city,
he searches the country,
but wherever the pup goes, satisfaction will never come.
he sleeps in the dark, cold and alone.
wishing for something to come along, so maybe just maybe,
he can share his loneliness with someone new.

A Halloween Massacre short story

Vacations were supposed to be something joyful and memorable; this vacation wasn’t like that at all. This vacation was the opposite. It was a traumatic nightmare. It was one that would haunt Veronica until her death.

When you watch horror and thriller movies you never expect something like that to happen to you. It’s something that happens to other people and to characters in fictional books. We forget that these things do happen. They can happen at any time. They can happen to you. 

Veronica was only gone for fifteen minutes. In that span of time a bloody massacre had happened and she was completely unaware that it could have happened. She could clearly remember laughing with her family before she left to run to the store. They were alive only fifteen minutes ago.

Now, they lay lifeless in the body bags as the ambulance drives them away to a morgue.

It had been dead silent when she returned. It only took a few seconds for her to discover that her family had been murdered; their throats messily slashed and wounds all over their bodies. Their blood leaking out and drying around them.

Her mother was the first she found. She was sitting in the brown reclining chair in the family room. Her father was a couple feet away from her on the floor. The detectives could determine that it was a blitz attack; they hadn’t expected it. They said the attacker must’ve slashed her mother’s throat then her father heard the commotion and came running in, but soon met his tragic fate by the edge of a blade.

His face was barely recognizable.

Veronica’s two younger sisters were outside behind the house; their bodies had been dumped into the small pond. They were floating face down. The water was blood red. The police guessed they had tried to run, but were unsuccessful.

She couldn’t stop picturing them flailing and choking on their own blood as they bled out. She only hoped that the killer was merciful enough to wait until after they died when he had cut out their eyeballs, chopped their fingers off and carved into their hearts.

The last thing Veronica found, which chilled her to the bone, were the words “Happy Halloween Veronica.”

It was written in their blood on the wall.

A few days later she received a package from an anonymous sender. In the package, she found her family’s fingers and eyeballs. There was also a note.

Trick or treat! You get a trick since you didn’t accept my offer to treat you to a dinner date. Tsk tsk. Wrong choice Veronica. Hope you enjoyed your Halloween.

There was no signature but Veronica knew who it was from. The massacre hadn’t been a random act of terror and worst of all the killer wasn’t just some stranger. She knew him. Now her family was dead just because she had refused to go out on a date with her best friend. 

Murder in the Graveyard (a Halloween inspired spooky short story)

It was dark tonight; darker than usual. The mist and fog clouded around me as I walked through the lonesome graveyard. My boots crunched leaves and twigs with every step I took. The wind blew through the looming trees that surrounded me. I shivered as I drew my black coat closer around me.

Strolling through this eerie graveyard was the last thing I wanted to do but I couldn’t stay inside with my abusive and drunk father. He’s unpredictable while drunk, but I'd rather not stay and find out what would happen. I don't want to end up like my mother all those years ago.

Maybe I would visit her grave while I'm out here.

I passed by endless gravestones, rows and rows of different tragedies.

It hadn't been long when I heard a shrill scream that broke the silence. It was high-pitched and spine-chilling. It frightened me to the core.

I should have run, I should have ignored it and turned around but I didn't. The scream came again, then pleas for help and hysteric sobbing. I had a terrible feeling in my gut but I kept walking as I followed the sorrowful yowls.

Suddenly, I could make out two shadowy shapes through the fog. I crouched behind a gravestone and peered through the darkness. A woman was crawling on the ground while looking behind her frantically. She was trying to get away from someone. The tall figure caught up with the woman and grabbed her ankles. She tried to fight but failed.

I should do something. I kept repeating that to myself yet I was frozen behind the gravestone. I felt like a scared child again; hiding behind the wall as I had watched my father beat my mother to death.

My pale fingers gripped the stone as I watched what was unfolding in front of me. The man had pinned the woman down to the ground. He was yelling something. She was crying and wiggling. He threw some punches. Then the worst came. The man picked up something from the ground. I couldn't see what it was but I soon figured it out when he brought the sharp edge down onto the woman.

She cried and yelled. Then came the gurgling and choking sound as he continued to bring the ax down on her. I was paralyzed. This shadowy man was murdering the mysterious women and I was powerless to help.

Sometime during it I shut my eyes, not being able to watch anymore. I still heard the sound though. I couldn't tune out the noise of bones crunching and flesh being chopped as he axed the woman to death. At one point I thought I could still, barely, hear her faint and withering cries. With the amount of times he tore into her flesh I didn't think she could still be alive.

Suddenly the noise stopped and I knew she was dead. There was a thud as the man threw the weapon onto the dirt. I dared myself to look. He wiped his forehead and I saw him spit at the barely recognizable body.

"Shouldn't have tried to escape bitch."

His voice was gruff and heartless. There was no hint of remorse.

The man leaned down and grabbed the end of the mutilated corpse then started carelessly dragging it. He eventually disappeared into the shadows along with the freshly chopped woman and ax. I stayed crouched behind the gravestone after he was gone. I was too frightened to move. Her screams were playing in my mind like a broken record. I couldn't get the sound of the ax coming down onto her flesh out of my head.

Eventually, I stood. My legs were wobbly and numb. I walked towards the spot where it happened. Even in the dark, I could make out the blood. There was so much blood. It stained the ground and filled the atmosphere with a strong metallic smell.

I gagged.

Tearing my eyes away from the spot where she was brutally murdered, I turned away. I walked, feeling numb. It wasn't until I got to the front door when the guilt came.

I let another woman get killed right before my eyes without even trying to step in to help.

I'm a murder. I killed my mother. I killed that woman. I'm a disgrace. A coward.

I unlocked the door and ran to the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror but I couldn't recognize myself. I squirted soap onto my hands and washed them. Then again and again. I scrubbed until they were red.

I shut my eyes. All I could see was her body. His shadowy figure. It was replaying itself in my mind.

Before I could stop myself, my fist balled and struck the mirror. I didn't bother to clean the blood and glass off my hand as I went into my room and shut the door.

I tossed and turned in my bed, sleep wouldn't be something that came easy. My eyes kept going towards the window; paranoia struck me. The man, what if he finds me? I kept expecting him to bust in and bring the same ax down onto me.

When I did finally fall into a restless sleep, I dreamed of the woman and my mother. Their corpses chased me and screamed into my face. Blood ran down their bruised and beaten flesh. The night terror followed me into the daytime.

The next day, people were talking about the murder. They had found the body. It was dumped into a ditch. It took a while for them to identify the woman because they had said her body was so mutilated it barely looked like a person.

When I had gone into town, I heard people talking about it. I felt like they knew what I had done.

I couldn't sleep the next night either. When I did, I had night terrors about the woman and the man with the ax.

When I was awake, I felt as if he would find me and make sure that I never tell his secret.

I hear her screams when I'm awake and when I sleep. The guilt gnaws at me. It tears me apart. It's all I think about. I can't eat or sleep, I'm slowly losing my mind. I'm on edge. I know he's coming for me.

Days passed and I hear they're finally having a memorial service for the woman who they had identified.

Her name was Shelby Brooks. She had been missing for two weeks. She was only twenty-three. Four years older than me.

They were burying her body in the same graveyard in which she was murdered in. Located right behind my house.

Often now, I can see her walking among the gravestones. Although I’m used to it since I sometimes see my mother.  It’s so vivid to the point where I think they’re real. I once saw her mutilated corpse standing among the stones; watching me.

When I’m alone in the small haunting house, I can hear sorrowful moans and footsteps. I hide in my room, frightened to death. I never know if it’s my mother or Shelby Brooks. Or even worse, the man with the ax coming to kill me.

Going insane and not being able to stop it is one of the worst forms of torture and pain. The guilt and terror that I feel is slowly eating me from the inside. I’m going to break. I’m a fragile glass waiting to shatter.

It happened one day when I was home alone and kept hearing footsteps and crying. I saw shadows crawling among the walls and I swore I heard a door open and shut.

I peered out the window into the darkness and thought I saw someone or something lingering by the shed. When I went outside and shined the flashlight onto it, nobody was there. I did find an ax though. As I picked it up, I heard heavy footsteps and shallow breathing.

I froze and panicked. It was the man with the ax. He finally found me and he was going to kill me. It all happened so fast. Icy fingers gripped my bare arm. Terrified, I swung around and whacked the shadowy man with the ax. My body was trembling. My legs were going weak.

Blindly, I kept hitting the man with the sharp edge of the ax. I wouldn’t let him kill me just like he had killed Shelby Brooks.

I kept swinging the ax down onto the body until I couldn’t swing anymore. The man wasn’t moving and I knew he was dead.

Curious to see the face of the mystery man, I found the flashlight that I had dropped and shined it onto the body.

Shock coursed through my shaken body, I stumbled and fell backwards. I felt sick. The man that I had just blindly murdered was my father.

My Halloween themed art