Emma-Oishii-Maggot

He froze time and my veins. The knots in my throat and guts Sunk deep into my soul Leaving me forever cursed, Forever blessed. Pain is a muse, A gift, a genius Which not many can endure. But the inspiration he bestows me Does not hurt me when I wait Because I know everything will make sense Once I feel his breath against my chest.

I awakened, and I found myself Searching for your scent. Your warmth, your sweet morning breath. It had only been seven twilights Yet each one of them felt eternal, Nurtured by the nostalgia, sulks and sighs Of a helpless, inveterate lover. Writhing in the memory of the instant In which the fathomless void in my soul Was finally suffused, I remember: We were destined to share our slumber, And as I stroked your dark hair of umber Your eyes slowly sealed, your deep voice weakened, Melting into a luscious, grave purr Which engulfed me, induced my lids to shut close. I held you tight, You kissed me goodnight. I swear it could not be but a living

What might be crossing the mind Of the girl in motley socks. Bruised pale knees, Splashes of colour her hands stain. She may not think well, she may be sick. Eyes childishly shining with curiosity. Distracted by everything, tied down by nothing; Her imagination dwells nowhere near. Her words speak to unearthly beings. May this be disappointing to some As they frown and complain: "What is wrong with this girl?" It is obvious and yet you seem not to know; This girl's only problem is being in love.

Such is the infamous feel, That I, in my foolishness, squander All of that which is most precious and real: Time, Reflection, Vim... waiting. And I wonder, O do I wonder, if it will Be worth the angst and misuse Of my hours of solitude When I may at last hear you waveringly speak, Contemplate your gentle and capricious smile As your mischievous, slanted eyes Avert in embarrassment Which you visibly attempt to hide; The mere thought of you Won't stop harassing my mind. Tell me, do you suffer from this too, Or is it just this hopeful heart of mine?

Lisbeth stared through the carriage's window, avoiding by any means any eye contact with her family; she remembered how much she loathed social meetings. Unfortunately, this was a crucial activity in a noble lifestyle, and she always had to do what her parents told her, even when it was against her will. She kept on observing the view quickly passing by on the other side: endless fields of the most intense green, crowned by humongous and sharply pointed mountains of which colour was of a soft, dull grey, becoming paler as they went further. Dense and tall woodlands were to be found nearly everywhere, sometimes having their unshakable and sti