To kick this baby off, I have not finished this story. In fact, I don't think I will ever be able to finish it. It's sort of dark and [emo], but don't worry I am definitely not that type of person. I decided it would be a good time to write something a little bit different, so I wrote this. In the end if I do finish this story, it will have a twist of a sort where you would have to read it over again in order to understand it (I hope that's how I can make it).

Have fun.

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What if I could stand still in the midst of the black coal world and get moved. Would I breathe fire through my mouth like furnace doors as my spaded tongue, through frenzied flames, shoveled ashes upon the cold Night's Grave? Is it my fault and my lies that put you where you are today; silent as the grass above you grows green only to be covered by ashes? The moonlight and this air I breath and the tears on the marble; nothing could bring you back.

So, was it my heart that drew you closer? If only you could see my heart now. It's pumping black tar to my dry, cracked veins. Each beat expands and tears, ripping my dry, withered heart while the tar sears and sizzles as it leaks through the cracks and eases out my pours and drips out my nose and makes my eyes bubble and burst. It couldn't be my heart. Didn't you know where all this would end?

My lungs breathed asthma as I smothered you with my lies. I would die to breathe again, yet I'm here enduring suffocation in the black night over you grave. I'm staring at the marble stones, tombs like miniature cities; skyscrapers reaching to the sky. My tears, raining down upon your tower. The tower you build for yourself. The tower I helped you built, as each word I spoke laid bricks to your grave, until I, with my hand to yours, laid the last stone and you covered it and looked to the skies.


What if I could stand still and get moved?
Would I spit fire? Would my blood leak tar to your grave?


I'm bleeding my life away. My soul is draining out of my skin. Drip. Drip. Drip. It slides down my leg. Your grave is covered with the cold stench of thickened tar gleaming in the moonlight, seeping into the black stained grass while the trees surrounding whistle in the wind. I'm losing my life to this lie.


I've already lost you.
Would I lose myself as well?


I'm being drained; shaken not stirred, like a bartender pouring me into the ozone. The black tar I once called blood is the sweat on my brow. It's my fleeting glances. It's my scorched trachea, drowning me as I gargle each breath. I could spit fire if only I had a match.

sounds like more of a poem rather than a story to me.

Interesting story - quite weird.


A poem can be a story. Rime of the Ancient Mariner , anyone?

i dont read many books or pomes.

You did a good job, but I'm curious to what inspired you.

Although, it did feel a bit unoriginal and cliched...



You should.

Seriously, poetry will help you think differently, and books are just amazing.

The books I have read where good. I just don't have enough time to read. I don't have many books either.

It probably seems original and "Cliched' because there has not been an original idea in thousands of years. Everything thought up has been thought before, so there is bound to be certain areas that bump heads.

And actually, I do like poetry. I guess I didn't notice how I was writing it when I did