DoctorLovebutter

When I wake, pain shoots through my soul I hurt within and without Have I become the thing I fear?

Let no one stand in your path Pain Let nothing make you stray from your goal Love To care is to ensure destruction Hate To let go is to soar Fear Become your true self

The wind can speak And from its voice we learn The wind tells truths from years long passed The wind brings love to hearts of glass The wind brings joy, although it's seldom heard Oh, if the wind could bring to me The treasured hope of spring to me The howling song that seems to be Aflame in e'ry heart But soon, I fear, the wind must cease The fragile flow that smooths a crease That bends the fragile stream of life within The wind is gone But soon it shall return

   I sometimes wonder how one could escape actually pain. This is, of course, completely forgetting the obvious route. I have come to the conclusion that the only true way to eliminate all pain is to become something else; something feral. In the words of Doctor Samuel Johnson, "He who makes a beast out of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." But how could one abandon humanity? Not to say that I wouldn't willingly give up my humanity in order to be numbed, but what possible way is there of doing such a thing without destroying oneself? Short of selling one's soul literally or metaphorically, can one separate himself or herself from t

Suffer. Begin the transformation. Devour. Drain what's within. Lie. Deny the world. Recover. Become something else.

Rot. Like a white hot cannonball; it stings. Sets the veins on fire. Chill. The cold of a void, more vast and freezing than any other. It writhes. Reality. Bending and fluctuating, it shimmers in empty space. What is real? Pain. Consumes its prey whole. Is this hell?

Do you truly see me, twisted creature in the glass? You seem to scream a horrid scream; Mourning of your lost esteem, Laying horrid, twisted writhing mass. I seem to recall, so long ago, Your heart was pure, your eyes aglow, Burning with childlike innocence, yet alas... You burn with the heat of a thousand suns, In your mind beats a million drums, Your heart as cold as a frozen pane of glass.

The kill was fresh and the hunt had begun anew. The hunter was on the prowl once more; the mighty stalker began by silently scouting the room. He felt the fear of his prey, the warmth of their presence. The primal urges convulsed in his veins, strengthening him. He slowly crept through the rafters, quickly enough to keep up with his prey, and quietly enough for his prey to be unaware. The constant pounding in his head kept him motivated, and the shadows writhed about him. No longer was he human, as being contained in a laboratory for twelve years had changed him. But something else swirled through his veins, something inhuman, something that

The Worst Screenplay Ever INT. SMALL CRAMPED HOTEL ROOM – NIGHT JOE is speaking with his accomplice in crime, JERRY. JOE Tonight? JERRY Tonight. JOE It’s happening tonight? JERRY We’re doing it tonight. JOE Why tonight? JERRY I dunno. JOE Okay. END Scriptwriters Note: This is how I am to practice my screenplay writing. Also, I am handsome and have all of the talent.