coelophysis
Bluelight Crew
I found this recently on an old computer, and I kind of liked reading it and thought I would share it 
I don't generally write anymore, but if I did I doubt it would be anything like this.
The wind whisks a thousand humble voices against my rattling windows. They shout with such sorrow of yesterday and regret for tomorrow. This house, my home, once a place for people to visit now is a place people run from in fear and regret for once having had hope in such a well designed but poorly built stead. My home has fallen apart. My father will no longer allow visitors in, as if they had desired to enter to begin with. My canary which once flew freely around my home is now caged and the sorrow in his eyes brings out the worst in my entire family. I cannot leave, for where ever I go people will know what house I am from. My head is spinning, my mouth is dry, but most of all I am tired. I can rest my head against my pillow for only a little while longer because I know soon this house will crumble and I will be left with nothing. I once saw a place in the mountains, a peaceful city where all of the locals praised to 8. I'd like to go there someday but I believe my very presence would be exactly what their establishment forbodes. Not those who seek peace but those who are the esscense of the word, and I will say with great fury that I wish I could burn this home that stands around me without the title of martyr or coward. But is it I who I should feel sorrow for, or is it everyone else in my house who has refused, dismissed, or never realized the inescapable terrors which lie buried in the basement? I grew up in this house but I feel it's my duty, for me, to complete my story elsewhere, before it is too late. I'm scared of this house, I'm scared of the neighbors, I fear the structure, and most of all I fear for my sanity. I need to leave, you need to leave, and you, you must never come in, no matter how green the grass is or how crystal clear the water of my pool is, because regardless of it's looks the windows do rattle.
I don't generally write anymore, but if I did I doubt it would be anything like this.The wind whisks a thousand humble voices against my rattling windows. They shout with such sorrow of yesterday and regret for tomorrow. This house, my home, once a place for people to visit now is a place people run from in fear and regret for once having had hope in such a well designed but poorly built stead. My home has fallen apart. My father will no longer allow visitors in, as if they had desired to enter to begin with. My canary which once flew freely around my home is now caged and the sorrow in his eyes brings out the worst in my entire family. I cannot leave, for where ever I go people will know what house I am from. My head is spinning, my mouth is dry, but most of all I am tired. I can rest my head against my pillow for only a little while longer because I know soon this house will crumble and I will be left with nothing. I once saw a place in the mountains, a peaceful city where all of the locals praised to 8. I'd like to go there someday but I believe my very presence would be exactly what their establishment forbodes. Not those who seek peace but those who are the esscense of the word, and I will say with great fury that I wish I could burn this home that stands around me without the title of martyr or coward. But is it I who I should feel sorrow for, or is it everyone else in my house who has refused, dismissed, or never realized the inescapable terrors which lie buried in the basement? I grew up in this house but I feel it's my duty, for me, to complete my story elsewhere, before it is too late. I'm scared of this house, I'm scared of the neighbors, I fear the structure, and most of all I fear for my sanity. I need to leave, you need to leave, and you, you must never come in, no matter how green the grass is or how crystal clear the water of my pool is, because regardless of it's looks the windows do rattle.
