Taken and Psychic 2“Sammy?” gasped Dean. The boy looked at him with scared eyes that sent a chill down Dean’s spine.“Love, are they?” the boy with the blue streak asked hesitantly.“Yes, Seth.” sighed Sam.(Dpov)“Dean, what are you talking about?” stuttered a wide eyed Caleb.“That’s Sammy, Cales.” whispered Dean as he elbowed Caleb softly, shocking all the hunters besides John who was in a state of shock at his youngest son.Suddenly there was hysterical laughing, that sounded like crying.(Spov)There was laughing from behind me. I turned and glared at Azazel.“Shut up Azazel!” yelled Seth, before saying a phrase in an language the hunters didn’t understand and pressing his hand to Azazel’s forehead."No no no." the YED cried before a scream sounded out of his throat and yellow smoke came rushing out of his mouth, before it was sucked into the floor.“What the hell?” came from the group of hunt
A Very Synacky Halloween! Part 1 The moon glowed bright in the sky, a warehouse right of the high way into a woodsy area. The warehouse windows were either cracked or missing, replaced with a dark gray cover. Music blaring, spider webs covered the entrance of the warehouse, covered in spiders, ranging from black to purple. Jack-O-Lanterns sat all around the walk way and throughout the patches of overgrown grass. They shone a wicked orange, giving them a sinister look, a line of teens, joking and laughing."Come on Zacky!" called a crazy haired boy who was dragging a smaller boy with black and purple colored haired."But Jimmy!" whined the boy."No, you're not missing this party!" growled Jimmy.Signing, Zacky gave up struggling making Jimmy smile."Hey guys!" said a boy with shades and ripped black jeans."Mattie!" was screamed as Jimmy let go of Zacky and jumped on Matt, giving him a tackle hug and a deep kiss.Laughing at the scene, Zacky rolled his eyes at the sight that happened almost ever
Taken and Psychic 1The house looked like something straight out of a horror film. It was old and rickety; the gray exterior leading itself to age the building, the broken windows telling about an old haunted history of pain and suffering. Cobwebs had formed in just about everywhere and a layer of dust covered every surface. The yard was overgrown with grass and weeds making it hard to see the arrival of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, a black ford truck, and a beat up red, rusting truck from the eighties. The Impala was first to stop. A man with short black hair and dark warm brown eyes, he was standing outside of the driver's side."Dean, Caleb stay in the car until I say so
ok?" said the man."Yes dad," said Dean in a bored tone."Yes Johnny, we gotcha," chuckled Caleb."Good, I'll be right back." He called as he walked to the black truck."Why does he do that?" asked Dean."Do what?""Make us wait! I'm not a child! I'm a grown man. For chrisakes I'm twenty-one, Cales!" was whispered harshly.
Days Without YouI'm laying awake at night.Thinking of you,Kills me inside.Knowing your gone forever.Lost here without you.I need you with me,Cause it kills me,But when I sleep,It's like your with me.I wish some way,You were with me.But I'll have to wait until I sleep,To be with you.
Wasn't There?If I wasn't here tomorrow?Gone and never coming back ?Would you care?Or would you lose sleep at night?Lost in my own mind.Lost in the dark.Pleading silently for help.For someone to pull me out of my own hell.
Ugly Scars“Why do you cut, dear?”“Doesn’t it hurt?”Of course it does –It hurts more than I’m worth“Why do you cut, dear?”“Aren’t you ashamed?”Of course I’m embarrassed,But I’m used to the blame.“Why do you cut, dear?”“Why don’t you stop?”Can you stop a dead bodyFrom starting to rot?Because, darling, you see,I’m not even here.I’m only a corpseWith no hope, and no fear.“Why do you cut dear?”Well, don’t you see?There’s a pain insideSo deep within meAnd it’s coming to the surfaceBut no one understandsSo I put that painInside my hands.And I lay it outFor all to seeOn wrists so redAnd forearms that bleed.“Why do you cut, dear?”“It’s ugly, you know.”Ha.“ugly” is exactlyWhat this is meantTo show.
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,again their bones are breakinglike the cracks in the Colosseum.Death does not defendeager-eyedfighters; he does not fulfillgodly goals ofheaven and halos.I am inverted, introverted,a jester jeeringat kids who kisslike life is long enough to fall in love.my mouth is a machine,a new nightfallordering our soldiers outinto pits where they pray for peace.the quirks of ourridiculous readings rule us,sand us into sculpturesthin and tall, trembling.our universe is built on uncertaintyand vicious virtueswritten by long-dead warriors whoexpected to live forever, andI do not yield to yourwell-read zombies.
The Wrong Side Of MidNightOn The Doctor's TrainI Met The Princess Of The Dawn,But We WereOn The Wrong Side Of MidNight.
new perspective.i.the dress hangs in the back of my closet,ashamed, limp and danglinglike a hanged lady at the gallows.it is a faded reminderof years ago,of the body I worein times gone.ii.I run my fingers over the pale fabric,trying to recall that dark peach pitrolling in my stomach,that intrusive disgust,that unclear thought running throughmy mind that night.I was younger, then,softer,when I decidedI'd never be wortha frame on the wall.I peeled myself apartin front of the mirror,shed the dress like snakeskin,left it like abandoning a childand sent myself toshiver against the wall.iii.while they all laughedat their faraway party,I trembled over the lyricsof the deafening silencein my middle school bedroom,trying to ignorethat sad pink pile of my imagelaying fat and loose in the corner.iv.today I slipped on the dress again,stepping my toes into its frigid watersbefore letting it tumble down over me.I stood at the mirrorand decided that the dress was lovely,and
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scarsOn the insides of my wrists,White hot pain memories shoot up my veinsAnd the tear vapour creates mistsIn the lenses of my glasses.My world narrows down to thoseWhite stitch marks that keep thePatchwork of my forearms and thighsTogether,Keeping the dark ugly hurtOn the insidesForever.How could I have done this to myself?Could I blame you?And him?And her too?No.I’m a big girl now,And the blame rests on my wrists,That flicked the bladeAnd sprayed the blood,And the mind that forbadeMe to ask for help.I’ve said it beforeAnd I’ll say it again;It isn’t beautifulTo put yourself through such pain.When your head is buzzingFrom the hit of the highOf a new cut on your thigh,Or your mind is lost in a mistOf ecstasy from a new sliceOn your wristAnd you’re dependent on itA junkie needing a hit,It isn’t pretty or cute or special.No amount of kissesWill undo the cutsOr absorb the scars.No
Anxiety attackAs the attack begins,I feel myself slipping away again.And I question things that are better left unsaid.And contemplate if I am better off dead.My anxiety is killing me,I feel my hands shaking.And I am sobbing.And am I dying?I am just trying,To get a grip.But I feel my reality slip through my finger tips.Nothing is real,Except every bit of pain my mind forces me to feel.Every memory that I had shoved away.Is now racing around my brain.It's driving me insane.And my limbs turn to jello.Every time my head hits the pillow,Before I go to bed.I start to panic and I am wide awake instead.More thoughts are swarming around like a hurricane.Please,Make it stop!And just like that,The attack is gone.
LostLost in this eternal nothing.Numb and tired of waiting,To fit in , with you.Supposed to be unadulterated love,Not this constant feeling,Of not belonging .You say you love me ,But you don't.You barely know me,My family.