The tarmac is warm but it's soothing. It's so easy to obey this urge to unshoe herself that she resists, just to feel that over-joy that being drunk offers with hands like doilies, made of glittery everything.. She feels so happy in cheap sedation. Friends are elated to absolute art and everything Shines. Her smile is so huge and toppling that soon she will fall to the floor.
She fingers a ring and works out that there is a flashlight. Flashlight. A moment for the word is too long and it drenches her and dilates her pupils, forces her to cram her eyelids together to fight off the creamy dry whiteness.
She had tried to escape before, but one thing about this reality deal is that persons are tied up between the abstract and the practical. Time, for example, is a real untouchable concept - and there's no proof, but nor is there any escape. Even death is no escape, because of its inevitability.
Flesh is worse. It is real, but contains feelings that are more than just chemicals. Which is why, when you fill up a liver with ethanol, the reaction can vary from ecstasy to misery, and within minutes one becomes the other, night becomes day and stars are smacked with all the kick of a shovel-flat.
Remaining motionless, she looked against the torch and made out eyes the colour of the private river that she and her friends had visited for skinny-dipping. They glittered as the million million drops of river quivered on her very pale nude self. "Go home, kidderoo. Didn't you see the sign?"
She didn't reply.
He switched off the flashlight and his steps moved away towards the trees, soft on the black road.
Where do I run to? For there is no place to hide from Time, and Death can always find you.
Where do I run to?
Where can one run to?
I'm lost in a country, where killing is rampant and murders in the name of evil are good. Where a ignorant leader can lead millions of educated people into believing that there is something that there isn't. And as soon as nothing is found.. He can lead him to believe that it's just an accident, that those six thousand + Iraqi lives that were lost don't matter, because they were all terrorists. And then, as soon as the people in my country, the people I talk to and see at the store, the people that I know begin to horribly abuse Iraqi citizens, they get their hands slapped and continue to fight in this god-awful war. And then, when I want to run away, when I need to run away from the evil surrounding me.. Where do I go? When the draft is enstated, where can I run to avoid it, to save those I love? Is there a country I can escape to, where I won't be called unpatriotic because I believe differently, and because I refuse to sit down when I strongly stand for something?
Where do I run to when there is a terrorist leading the country that I love?
Where do I run to, when all I had left was you, and now you're gone? When everything I relied on was you, only you, and now there's nothing, no one?
You were all I had - my life revolved around you
The delicate brush of your hand; innocent kisses; a chocolate heart tentatively offered. Your gentle, timid touch, setting my heart racing.
And then she came along, and you - headstrong, impulsive - were swept away, leaving me behind. Leaving so many maybes, what-ifs, might-have-beens...
And now I need you, but you're gone, and I have nowhere to turn.
"I'm Not So Sorry"
Where do I run to when every refuge is every place that I'm escaping? I've come to realise that You were right from the beginning-- You were right, and I was wrong. And You know what? I'm sorry. I'm sorry for turning around so many times, for not knowing where to go, for not knowing. Each drip from the faucet while I'm trapped here, locked in the bathroom with my head in my hands, is torture. Every sound and heavy breath reverberates off the hollow walls, and every evil wanting echoes off my wavering resolution. Something has to happen.
I have to make something happen, or I'll die here. And then I think, I'll die anywhere. But I'll be damned if it's going to be here. With a resurgence of my wavering semi-destructive will I unlock the door and walk out, where You are, where You've been for three and a half hours. No harsh glare, no "I told you so", nothing. You're just sitting there, Your head in your hands, bleeding. Bleeding from Your hands, the two open wounds that open and close, open and close. And from Your face, all over Your face it keeps flowing and there's nothing I'm about to do to stop it. It's my fault, all this that's happened is my fault. There You were with all Your love and here I was with all myself.
Where do I run to when I am the one twisting my own words, breaking my heart, kicking me when I'm down? Who can save me from myself?
Where do I run to when there's knocking at my door?
Where do I run to when your face is perfect as before?
Where do I run to when trouble is at bay?
Where do I run to on this tragic day?
Where do I run to when life no longs gleams?
Where do I run to when nothing is as it seems?
Where do I run to if you won't be with me?
WHere do I run to and when will i be free?
It's not a masterpeice, it's a peice of spontaneous writing ^_^ .. first post .. I'm Emily by the way
Where do I run to?
Who am I? Who are you? How are you? What are we? Why are we? Are we? Are you sure? Does this count? Do you believe? Does it look right? Does it? Do you? Where do I run to? What are you doing? Why are you doing it? When did you last see her? What was she wearing? Did you believe her? Do you still? Does it still hold up? Will it break down? Do you want it to break down? Will you break it down? Do you hurt? Where do I run to? Does this sting? Do you feel? Do you remember? Don't you know? Why are you scared? Why are you sad? What have you done? What has happened? Do you have a heart? Do you use it? Is it broken? Are you crying? Hush now, no more questions. (But, I have just one more!)