inwordsthereispower

In the library, the child stared at the array of books, the array of stories, and the array of adventures. He was three years old, and he loved books, and loved stories. “Noah,” his mother began, “what kind of book should we get this time?” Noah grinned his childish grin, looked around at all of the books, and smiled brightly as he picked out on with an elephant on the front. “This one!” His mother smiled and looked at the book. “Alright, this one.” When we get home, I’ll read it to you. “But, mommy,” the child whined. “I want to read it all by myself.” His mother

People can be so mean. They try to break you, Try to shatter you, Try to hurt you. And they would always succeed. But they don’t have to! They never have to. You can change everything. Oh God yes, they’ll still hurt. They’ll still wound you, But you can bandage up the wounds. You can fix yourself back up. There is always, Always! A reason to keep going. If you can’t find it, Look harder, Look closer, Look longer. Look to me. Because I will be there. I will always be there to help, To pick up the broken pieces, And put you back together. It will get better, Someday. Maybe not someday soon, But s

A small child sat, bored waiting for his parents to come home, they said they had a surprise, and he wanted to know what it was. “Grandpa, tell me a story,” the child demanded. His grandpa smiled, and pulled the child into his lap. “What kind of story do you want to hear?” The child thought for a moment, his imagination running wild. There were a million ideas he had, but he couldn’t decide on one. “You pick something grandpa, your stories are always the best.” Again with a twinkle in his eye, the old man smiled. “I know the perfect story,” the child grinned and curled up close to listen.

I love the way the snow falls. Beautiful and delicate, like a dancer, twirling through the air. The snow has such beauty. Clean, white and pure. It's the colour of innocence, the colour of peace. But the snow can also howl, and rage and be angry. “Please,” I beg. “Don’t hurt me.” The storm will never quell. It’s furious as it throws me. I grow to fear the snow I once loved. Why can’t it go back to innocence. I lay in the snow’s embrace. Broken, and crying. Why do you hurt me? What did I do?

I hate the kind words they can spill out on paper, but the cold ones that come out of their mouths. I hate that I have to analyze their writing to figure out what they are really feeling. And even then, I'm not entirely sure. I hate their peaceful concentration and the passion they put into their work. I hate how they can articulate so much, and at the same time, so little. What I hate most about writers is: I fell in love with one. Writers can be cold and distant. They care about the words more than other people. They spend days not speaking, not eating, not sleeping, just writing. They can also be kind, writing stories, and poems inspired b

Could I have been more blind, could I have been more stupid? The way you didn't look at me, I should've known you were lying. "I'm not ready for this," you said. I am not crying, I'm too much in shock. I'm still trying to convince you to stay. "Maybe when you get back." I knew that was never going to happen. This was the end. You've shattered my fragile heart, and broke all of the promises you made to me. You see, that's why I promise very little. You are never getting back my heart. Still, I hadn't let myself believe it, a month went by. I heard nothing from you. Good, let's keep it that way. But my circle of friend was small, you got togeth

A dancer, who's stage has a pole, who's audience put dollar bills into the little costume she wears. To the world she is lying when she says she dances for herself, and no one else. She is labelled as a 'slut' and a 'whore' because she likes what she does. She is confident in her body, and loves coming up with new routines. A burlesque dancer she calls herself, but she knows she's a stripper. And she embraces it. After her dance, gentlemen come and try to take her home. With a teasing smirk, that plays on her pretty pink lips she returns to the men who have won her heart since she was small. Poe, Dickens, and Carroll. They will always be her

I am taught to speak, then told to be silent. I am taught to be me, then told to conform. Why am I taught to do something, then told to do the opposite? It seems that no matter what, I am letting someone down. I stopped doing what I was told, and started doing what I was taught. The world has now given me a name, Artist.

Fairies fly, and stardust falls, and he is happy. In his land of dreams. Doing what dreamers do best he dreams. He dreams of life beyond the pain he is always in. Colours are taking over. Lighting up his body like a tree at Christmas time. He won't last much longer. The medicine isn't working. He grows weaker by the day. One more surgery. And he doesn't make it through. Fairies fly, and stardust falls, and he is happy in the land of never ending dreams.

Prowling, looking for his next prey the demon with black eyes. “You're tears are all the pay I'll ever need.” He's a business man payed with your pain and suffering, so beware of the demon with black eyes smartly dressed and well groomed. He will only cause you pain.