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Literature Text
If I found you, on your knees,
trying desperately to collect the shattered pieces of your heart-
I would kneel beside you and help you pick them up.
I would not cast a blind eye,
and pretend I had not seen you.
If I saw that your hands had been cut,
by the very shards of hope you were trying so hard to gather-
I would take your hands in mine, and hold them until the pain subsided.
Then I would kiss every wound- no matter how big or how small,
until I was sure you would be able to use your hands again.
If you were crying from the fear that you'd never be able to pick up everything,
I would hold you until your tears stopped, and I would comfort you with gentle words.
But I would not lie to you- I would never lie.
The heart is a frail thing- once shattered, it can never be fully repaired.
Parts will remain missing, and the mended hope will always bear cracks.
If we found that we'd gathered all that we were able,
and that there were a fine powder remaining of what we could not collect.
I would blow that powder into the wind and have you watch it fly.
Then I would tell you that because part of you was with the wind,
part of you would remain forever free from hardship.
If you were in need of aid-
if you needed help putting the pieces of your heart back together.
I would stay beside you and help you put every last piece into its proper place.
Then, I would lock your frail heart in a protective case,
and give it to you with the key to unlock it.
Then, after I had done all of that, I would turn to leave-
but if you tried to prevent me from going, I would stop.
If only to hear a simple thank you and goodbye, I would stop.
However, should you ask me why I'd stopped to help you in the first place,
I would gladly answer you in honesty.
My answer would simply be,
“I was in your place once, and none stopped to help me,
so for sake of preventing that sorrow in others,
I will stop to help them whenever I see their suffering.”
Then I would smile at you earnestly and wait for your response.
I assume that past that point,
we would talk and socialize with each-other for a while,
until we came to our understanding.
You would learn that despite my outward appearance,
that I bear the same scars as you on the inside of my being.
Then, after all was said and done, we would embrace.
As for what I think may happen beyond that point-
I would gladly remain friend to you and call you as my kin.
However, that would all depend of course,
on if you would like me by your side until the bitter end of things.
trying desperately to collect the shattered pieces of your heart-
I would kneel beside you and help you pick them up.
I would not cast a blind eye,
and pretend I had not seen you.
If I saw that your hands had been cut,
by the very shards of hope you were trying so hard to gather-
I would take your hands in mine, and hold them until the pain subsided.
Then I would kiss every wound- no matter how big or how small,
until I was sure you would be able to use your hands again.
If you were crying from the fear that you'd never be able to pick up everything,
I would hold you until your tears stopped, and I would comfort you with gentle words.
But I would not lie to you- I would never lie.
The heart is a frail thing- once shattered, it can never be fully repaired.
Parts will remain missing, and the mended hope will always bear cracks.
If we found that we'd gathered all that we were able,
and that there were a fine powder remaining of what we could not collect.
I would blow that powder into the wind and have you watch it fly.
Then I would tell you that because part of you was with the wind,
part of you would remain forever free from hardship.
If you were in need of aid-
if you needed help putting the pieces of your heart back together.
I would stay beside you and help you put every last piece into its proper place.
Then, I would lock your frail heart in a protective case,
and give it to you with the key to unlock it.
Then, after I had done all of that, I would turn to leave-
but if you tried to prevent me from going, I would stop.
If only to hear a simple thank you and goodbye, I would stop.
However, should you ask me why I'd stopped to help you in the first place,
I would gladly answer you in honesty.
My answer would simply be,
“I was in your place once, and none stopped to help me,
so for sake of preventing that sorrow in others,
I will stop to help them whenever I see their suffering.”
Then I would smile at you earnestly and wait for your response.
I assume that past that point,
we would talk and socialize with each-other for a while,
until we came to our understanding.
You would learn that despite my outward appearance,
that I bear the same scars as you on the inside of my being.
Then, after all was said and done, we would embrace.
As for what I think may happen beyond that point-
I would gladly remain friend to you and call you as my kin.
However, that would all depend of course,
on if you would like me by your side until the bitter end of things.
Literature
Stand Against Suicide
I know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe
Literature
Murder your Poem
Make your poem suffer,
it needs to know how you feel.
And if it doesn't, your poem is ignorant.
Gouge the pen deep within it, until bloody ink stains through.
Write very hard
so your poem can feel your scars.
If you crinkle the corners,
good;
it needs to have broken tattered bones.
Feeling exhausted before your done.
Do not share or post your poem so soon,
for it needs to feel rejection.
Most important, before it dies.
Never..
Clean it's wounds, or tape its rips,
do no accept forgiveness..
As your poem dies, you'll be surprised.
Your dead withered poem,
has found
new life.
Literature
Immortals- Jeff The Killer x Reader Part 17
You and Jeff landed on the other side of the portal. You looked around you and saw mountains and trees as far as the eye could see. Pennsylvania was indeed beautiful.
"Were here." Masky announced.
You looked to your left and saw a house, a rather large one in fact, hidden partially by trees.
"This is where Eyeless Jack lives. He built this house big in case all of us wanted to move here." Jeff said.
The six of you walked up to the house and Slenderman knocked on the door.
The door opened and a boy looked out. He looked like he was wearing a mask with holes dripping black paint where the eyes should be. The mask was blue. Other than that he lo
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