YoungWritersGroup

We're perfect strangers, you and I, As I still don't know of your name. Just perfect strangers, you and I, And that's my eternal shame. All I saw were your cherry-red lips, Those eyes with that deep dark-down fire. The way that you moved in the flickering light, Alighting me up with desire. A secret tryst in the dead of the night Your dress fallen onto the floor. An unknown room in the back of the House Silk tapestries hiding the door. We didn't sleep for all of those nights, Those full and five times in that room. Filled with a passion, given for lust; But taken too fast, gone far too soon. A sixth time over we planned and I

There are some things I utterly deplore about myself. I can be arrogant, I set my expectations way too high and I can be a bitch behind my friend's backs. But at the moment, what I hate the most is how afraid I am. I'm not scared of the dark, or the monsters that lurk therein. I'm not afraid of spiders or rats or that the sky may fall on my head. I'm not afraid of a nuclear apocalypse - okay, well maybe a bit. But that's not the point. I'm too afraid to take a chance. To afraid to jump for fear that I may fall. Even if at the bottom, there's only soft, sweet grass, and the fall's not so very far. I still won't jump. Not ever. I think... I

A halo in the skies; a break of brightness In the grey and omnipresent cloud covering. Unbroken and flat, save for waves of white, A pool and a mirror of silver and sky.

morning morning noontide death taking taking all what's left. evenin evening Twilight tight fading fading suntime's light Nighttime nighttime midnight tryst spinning spinning life's a' twist

 The Puppeteer sat at his desk, reading from a thick, brown book. Words scrawled across the torn, yellow pages. Around him and his classic leather chair, a library stood. Stained brown bookcases lined wooden paneled walls. There was a bright, writhing fireplace nestled in a corner, its flames licking the air. A red paisley carpet lay under foot, dotted with other chairs and dark brown coffee tables. An elegant lamp stood by the Puppeteer's side, giving off a comfortable yellow glow. The Puppeteer closed his book. He set it on the table in front of him, and grinned, leaning back into the leather. " Come in," he said, his voice velvety