SeiRyuSeijin

    There is a man at the end of the street—a man who has lived long through blistering winters and sweltering summers, most of it at the end of the street. Now, it is Christmas time again, and the man is standing right where he always has, staring down upon his wintry lawn.    The grass was covered in a thin layer of snow, just enough to let a young pine tree to stand true—only a few inches tall—covered in sparkling ice crystals. Miniscule rainbows burst forth from the hundreds of tiny prisms that covered the tree's miniature needles.    The man saw this little pine tree and kneeled down to observe it further.    "Littl

*Note: a much better formatted version of this story is available on Google Docs: Recommended version of Exercise to read.*   I have a question. If everything about someone is erased from everyone else’s minds—every bit of significance, good or bad, that this person has imprinted on other’s minds—then can that person be considered as living, or even existing at all? After all, one’s personal existence is defined by the marks they make on the world, and those marks are remembered by other people. That is the question, and it is one that has me captivated. So if you erase all of the marks, can the thing that c

When you have a pen, all can become true. A pen brings the Fountain of Life to life; A fountain spews colors of all what is not. A pen can make hearts strung on heavy chords, Or a pen can make sweet joy blossom forth. A pen can do anything you want it to. It can start a war, and it can end one; It can win a battle, and it can lose. A pen can do all this and so much more. And a pen is mightier than a sword, But a pen will not try to break your heart.

Help me. I am drowning. I am choking. I am falling from the sky. I am crashing into everything. I am thirsty beyond comprehension; I am hungry beyond measure. But I am not dying. I am jumping off a building; I am jumping off a bridge. I am putting poison in my water. I am holding a gun to my head. I am planning to escape. I am bleeding out. But I am not dying. Help me.

Help me. I am drowning— The water consumes all I live for. I am choking— The air has no way to save me. I am falling from the sky. I am crashing into everything. I am thirsty beyond comprehension; I am hungry beyond measure. But I am not dying. I am jumping off a building; I am jumping off a bridge— Waiting for the surface to claim me. I am putting poison in my water. I am holding a gun to my head. I am planning to escape— Freedom’s so close. I am bleeding out— Soon there will be none of me left. But I am not dying. Help me.

There is a light That tends to be quite bright. It swings and sways, Frowns and flickers dim— usually on some silly wim. It hangs on an unseen string, And swings to and fro—ignoring the days. This light seems to shine only for me, Yet it still breathes rainbows on misty mourning cities. I can always see this light, And I know it’s always there, But sometimes I lose track, And cannot bear to go forward or go back. As I alight on brittle branches of death’s great glory, I prepare myself for another great story. I can see a light—this time ever so bright— It beckons to me, so I can hold its hand, And bring

I walk in the forest and see Oh so many things around me. Behind me is all that I’ve ever known, But as I walk forward I tend to leave that alone. In front I see all that could be— At first glance only simple sights set free— The trees, the branches, the overgrown path, And the lichens and mushrooms living on nature’s wrath. A myriad species of birds chirp in the leaves, And falcons fly free in the sky of my pet peeves. The frogs are croaking in a bog to my left, And to my right, maybe a wolf—and the deer doesn’t know his deft. I can see a bird’s nest, high up and far away, But it is empty, althoug

Mother's day: a spring day as any other, Or a day in still—one for a mother. The wishes wrought may never be, but true Hope can see you all the way through, and through Everlasting glades dead diamond trees shine. Running makes a beautiful blur a brine, So take time, ignore the wrinkle, and be. Doing any other would be quite queer— Any other cannot be with you here; Yes, it's mother's day, so let yourself be.