My mother wouldn’t look at me no matter how much I tried to catch her. I think a part of her knew. Of course she will pretend other wise, but what else is there to believe. The women who carried me would never be capable of this. At least, that is the story I wish I could believe. My own mother can not bare to look at me. She turns away every chance she gets. Lips tremble as she lies. Eyes glisten as she hides. She can stand to touch my hand. Or rather, what little that is left. I think it scares her. But I wish she could see that it scares me more. I am the one who will never be loved. The one who will always be alone. I can find my beauty in other things. But not if she can not do this simple task. I need my mother to see me. I need her not to grieve whats gone. She can’t bare it though. Despite that fact that it was I who was wronged.
Mirrors edge taste like depression
A tainted lesson in repression
From a girl who is no more
A gift at my discretion
Jasper dreams rasping behind closed doors
Pretty boys fall in love with unexpected girls
Trouble happens and all soon ignored
Lies get told and told and told some more
Hidden behind a well tamed fist
Tears fall down though more lies about not being pissed
Days flow by and by and by
Truths are told beneath a starry sky
Romance happens to be forgotten again
Lies prevail because that is the truth that sells
Corruption of a good friend is expected now
Someome dies and we crawl towards an end
Some kisses shared a please don’t tell
But of course to be discovered
‘THAT PERSON IS YOUR LOVER’
Kept away to be safe only released because of plot
Devices deceived by a sellout plot
More drama and drama and drama
But then end draws near
Hopeless life is resuced despite our cries
Please just let the stupid bitch die!
What was once ignored, a romance, is now happening before our eyes
Suddenly and suddenly and suddenly see
The heroine we hate (or love) starts to fade
The Hero we crave (or whom disgust) doomed to save
Writes the end but to be continued on another day
What a stupid teen cliche.
What is it like before it ends? Moments filled with laughter and pain? Is it worth it?
I think it is.
I was created to a punching bag, something meant to be destory all in the name of fun. Do not pity me though, I am ok with this.
I knew the moment I was born that I was meant to die this way.
I remember the smile on my creaters face.
Their pride was addictive. Held together with paper and glue; I never thought I amounted to much. Cheaply made but they where proud anyways.
The exciment, the laughter, easy to forget the pain.
It took awhile for them to find me. The perfect family to want me. The feel as the child held me in their arms. I don’t think I will ever forget it.
The car ride home was the scariest part. while the child was happy to have me they still worried. What if their friends didn’t like me? What if I wasn’t enough? Where they to old to love me?
I remember how their parents just laughed, “It will be ok”.
The child grasped me closer nodding but still confused.
I wanted nothing more then to comfort them. Even though I knew my fate I still wanted them to smile.
When we had gotten to their home the child gently walked in and placed me on the counter. Running their hands along my face and tail. Leaving warm trails along my side.
The parents walked up; bowls of candy in each hand.
I won’t lie, I was afriad. I wished I had the abilty to run at that moment. I knew what would happen. I was proud but still… the pain wasn’t something I looked forward too.
They were gentle though. Not to rough as the filled me to the brim. Still I shook (or at least I think I did).
The child stood by me the whole time though. Reminded me off my creater with how serene he was. Even when faced with something difficult and new, they stayed brave. In the end it made even me feel brave.
Once the parents were done they walked away. I stayed that way for sometime before someone came for me. They gently carried me outside and tied me to a nearby tree. To me it seemed to high but I know the little ones would it perfect so I had no complaints really. It took awhile longer for people to arrive. As they did I made sure to watch and get an understanding of the guest. The kid in blue looked like he packed a punch while the boy with the cornflower hair seemed timid and thoughtful. Many more beside them ran inside. Each with their own story, their own personality, their own power.
I was still in control though, I got to choose which one had the honor of taking my life.
To others it seem like a grave power to have but I was ok with it. Proud even; I was in control of my own destiny. How many others could say that?
As the final hour crawled closer I sat and watched. The children played merrily as the adults rushed around stopping little spats and encouraging fun.
It was all so exciting. I watch as the little timid boy, the oddest in the bunch of hyper children, stand by himself. Ignoring even the young birthdays boys attempts to play. At first I felt pity for him but then I realized that he was truly enhoying himself. Sure it wasn’t like the other little boys but the soft smile on his face allowed me to see that he took pleasure it watching the lives of others.
This little boy reminded me much of myself. Watching from the outside. As carefree as can be, yet thoughtful.
I decided that he would be the one to kill me.
I was never one for happy stories but this is the closest I have ever gotten to one. I have decided to not show the finishing moments because we all know how that goes. Instead i wanted to show the pinatas viewpoint from creation to moments before it is destroyed.
If it had feeling would it be ok with it being broken? I like to think it would. It would be bringing joy to children. Yes it will hurt but life is never easy. This was a special pinata and it felt looked because it was. I remember always wanting one as a kid. I loved going to others peoples parties and having fun especailly with this ginat paper mache madness come out. These words of art that will be destroyed in the end but is well loved beforehand.
How many of us has had one and held it closely to our hearts because we felt it was the best thing ever. The excited smiles and giggles.
Even though it is the parents and other kids who decide who is lucky enough to break the pinata I felt that it was best to leave it up to the one who will be broken. It was always interesting how much effort it took to break one and how sometimes it seemed to take forever and others it didn’t take as long. Almost like the person who broke it was choosen.
I found this via google and think I may keep doing this.