stories, jokes, poems

blacksun

stories, jokes, poems

These are sum stories, quotes, poems and jokes that i like, ill try to change them every week so u dont have to read the same ones over and over again.

Poem

The Final Act

screeching tires, shattering glass,

Twisting metal, fiberglass.

The scene is set, it all goes black,

The curtain raised, the final act.

Sirens raging in the night,

Sounds of horror, gasps of fright.

Intense pain, the smell of blood,

Tearing eyes begain to flood.

They pull out bodies one by one.

What's going on? We were only having fun!

My friend is missing. What did I do?

Her belongings everywhere,

In the road there lies her shoe.

A man is leaning over me and looks into my eyes,

"What were you thinking son?

Did you really think that you could drive?"

He pulls up the sheet, still looking at me,

"If you'd only called your mom or dad you'd still be alive."

I start to scream, I start to yell

But no one can hear me, no one can tell.

They put me in the ambulance, they take me away.

The doctor at the hospital exclaims, "DOA!"

My father's in shock, my mother in tears,

she collapses in grief, overcome by fear.

They take me to this house and place me in this box.

I keep asking what is happening,

But I can't make it stop.

Everyone is crying, my family is so sad.

I wish somwone would answer me,

I'm starting to get mad.

My mother leans over and kisses me good-bye,

My father pulls her away, while she is screaming "WHY?"

They lower my body into a dirt grave,

it feels so cold, I yell to be saved.

Then I see an angel, I begin to cry.

Can you tell me what is happening?

And she tells me that i died.

I can't be dead, I'm still so young!

I want to do so many things

Like sing and dance and run.

What about college or graduation day?

What about a wedding? Please-I want to stay.

The angel looks upon me, and with a saddened voice,

"It didn't have to end like this, you knew you had a choice.

I'm sorry, it's too late now, time I can't turn back.

Your life is finished-that, my son, is fact."

Why did this happen? I didn't want to die!

The angel embraces me and with her words she sighs,

"Son, this is the coonsequence you paid to drink and drive.

I wish you made a better choice, if you did you'd be alive.

It dosen't matterif you beg me, or plead on bended knee,

There is nothing I can do, you have to come with me."

Looking at my family, I say my last good-bye.

"I'm sorry I disappointed you, Dad.

Mommy please don't cry.

I didn't mean to hurt you, or cause you any pain.

I'm sorry all you're left with is a grave that bears my name.

I'm sorry all your dreams for me have been away,

The plans for my future now buried in a grave.

"It was a stupid thing to do,

I wish I could take it back.

But the curtain is being lowered now.

So ends my final act."

Red skull

Quote

"To be nobody but yourself in a world that's doing it's best to make you somebody else is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting."

-e.e. cummings

Story

Cookie Cutter Hands

It started a few years ago-the cutting. My boyfriend had just broken up with me, and my mother disappeared. She left a note-that was it-and then was gone.

On the outside I was your typical high-school freshman. I was in the popular group. Older boys liked me, and I earned straight A's. I was told to be grateful, to rjoice that I didn't have to keep a job after school and that I could attend a private college back east after graduation. I was told that everything was going to be okay. I was told to smile, and not to think about Mom or stress out over school. I was told not to care. Except, the problem was that i did care. I cared about Mom leaving and my boyfriend dumping me, and not being able to talk to anyone. I cared that my dad was always working and that I was always alone. I cared about everything-and i felt so alone.

On the inside I was being tormented by the feelings of angst, loneliness and self-loathing. My mother's leaving confused me. I was ashamed and humiliated over my breakup with my boyfriend. In a sense, I felt dead. I t was as if I went to school mummified. No one knew that my insides were rotting away, slowly.

I never talked about these feelings with my friends. Why would I? What would they say? How would they react? I was happy and fun to hang around with at school, and nothing was ever wrong. I grew up in a neighborhood where the grass was always cut and 16 candles on the cake justified a shiney new car.

Somehow, even though I was suffering, I couldn't feel it. I wanted wanted to feel the pain that I could not understand. I wanted to reshape the crooked emotions into a neat little line that stretched across my right arm, a line that curved around my ankle, a line that liberated the caged ghosts screaming inside me. The razor was like a tool, a wrench used to tighten the screws on my innards and keep them in place so that I didn't have to cry in public or talk bout my pain or feel alone

With every red beaded line, I would sigh in calm releif. I didn't cry when I was hurt or upset. Instead, I cut. The complez emotions leaked from my flesh in the form of blood, rather than from my eyes in the form of tears. Anytime I felt empty or stressed or confused, anytime I looked in the mirror-hating myself and my cursed reflection-I would cut. I would cut just to bleed, just to know that I was still breathing, to feel my heart race and my nerves stir.

My secret kept me safe. I became addicted to a pain that didn't hurt, but instead felt nice. I sought refuge in the shower with my cookie-cutter-like razor, making imprints on my soft flesh: circles and lines, hearts and stars. I was steady with my razor. The whole world seemed to blur and slow down, and the cuts left me calm as I watched the crimson tears drip onto the white shower tiles.

I hid my scars under designer blouses with long sleeves. Sometimes I let them show.

"Darn cat," I would say if anyone asked. "Darn friggin' cat ."

My addiction to self-mutilation lasted all through high scool. No one knew that there was a war going on inside of me. I was really good at hiding it. Sometimes I flirted with the idea of pressing the razor harder into my wrist to make the whole world stop. I never did, though, thank God. Instead I got caught.

After 4 years of hiding my cookie-cutter hands and neatly sliced arms, my father finally noticed my self-inflicted wounds. I couldn't use the same excuse with him. He knew we didn't have a cat.

I felt naked showing my father my scars. I didn't want to share them with him. I was angry with himfor being so unaware, for letting my mother leave and for abandoning me with my pain. He scrutinized the red marks under my socks. And then he cried. My father had never cried before. I cried, too, and at that moment, I snapped. I suddenly realized how unhappy I was. I wasn't happy at school, adn I wasn't happy after cutting myself. Cutting had been a release, an ephemeral exhale, a brief hope that I could make it hurt enough to release the pain, so that I could smile again, and that my smile would be for real. I wanted to make myself bleed and then watch myself heal. I wanted to be in control of the wounds inflicted in order see the pain I felt inside, and, yet, I realized that I wasn't in control of anything.

I started seeing a doctor and learning how to express my emotions and make pain tangible. I wrote in my diary adn played the guitar. I talked to my father and my friends at school. I talked to my new boyfriend. I tried to get out of the house as much as possible, exploringnature and the other side of the window. I took in the air and relaxed. Slowly, it became easier. Slowly, my addiction lessoned, and I was okay. I t was hard, but I grew stronger each time I faced my pain. I realized that for the past 4 years, I had been walking through shadows without taking the time to look up at the purple jacaranda trees that cast them.

by. Kelly Peters

-If you have a problem similar to the one in the story ask for help.

call:

National Mental Health Association Help Line- 800-969-6642

United Way Crisis Help Line: 800-233-4357

Kids Help Line- 1-800-668-6868

I hope you liked the stuff!!! If you have a good story, quote, poem or joke, send it to me and ill put it on!!