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CreepyScritch, scratch go their claws.
As they climb up my curtains
Yelling and howling
They claw at me now
They scream and they hiss
As they tear off my skin
With their sharp claws
And yellow teeth
I scream in pain
I try to writhe away
My stomach is where my heart should be
And my hear is in my throat
My palms sweat
My teeth chatter
Adrenaline courses through my veins,
But I can't throw them off
Yelling and howling they claw at me
I scream one last time, before succumbing to the deep
My Greatest FearMy palms sweat
My breathing is staggered.
How could something so happy
Be something so horribly haggard?
His face is white
His lips are blood-red
I close my eyes
And bury my head
He laughs at me
I scream for my life
Why is this happening?
Wait, is that a knife?
There is laughter
There is wretched music playing
As I sit there trembling
Wishing I wasn't staying
Oh, that laughing face
Yet sad, angry eyes
Grins on forever
While I sit here and cry.
MusicThere it was. That right feeling.
You would have to be a musician to know.
That feeling you get when the music is perfectly in-tune
And nothing is going wrong.
I sway back and forth with the music.
The beautiful melody is played out by my hands.
There are days when my cello is just so perfectly in tune.
And I love those days.
I don't want to stop playing those days.
With strings, everything can be so frustrating sometimes,
Because there are a thousand different possibilities to play the wrong note,
And only a few possibilities to play the right note.
Sometimes, there is only one possibility.
But, I am so thrilled when everything is played right.
Sure, I'm happy when I write.
But only when things are happy.
I live, breathe and die with my characters.
If they aren't happy, I'm not happy either.
I live with them.
But music so often provides such a sweet escape
Of beautiful melodies.
When I play simple
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
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