Have you ever seen those Pixar shorts where it's just music in the background and a "silent" story for around 5 minutes? Do you prefer it when the story is more on the serious emotional side (mc loses love one, has depression, gets cancer, ect.) or do you prefer it when the story is more simple (mc late for school/work, bad hair day, gets irritated at little things, ect.) ?

(This is pro-Palestine, I’m expressing my thoughts and emotions on this matter but I still tried to write it well and I also want criticism on this writing. I mostly write non-fiction like this.)

When we were children, we thought that all people were redeemable. We believed that all human beings were inherently good, and though we may do bad things, that does not make us bad people.

Similarly, a lot of people question the existence of Hell. They argue that the idea of eternal, unbearable torture is far too extreme, and no act could possibly warrant such a punishment. That if there truly existed a benevolent, merciful god, he would never inflict anything of the sort on his own creation.

And today, as we witness the atrocities committed by the Israeli army, the existence of Hell now makes sense. As we hear more and more horrific stories the people of Gaza have lived, stories that the human mind cannot possibly fathom, it becomes apparent to us that only Hell is fitting for Israel and its soulless army.

What other punishment could possibly be fitting for the murder and torture of tens of thousands? The malicious, heartless, and despicable government of Israel, its army, and all those who follow them have left no terrible act—be it torture, rape, or starvation—except that they have committed. Not only do they shamelessly commit unspeakable acts, but they also brazenly display these acts as if they were a badge of honor. As if they have done the world a favor.

This is my message to all Zionists, from the powerful one who rules nations and armies, to the by-standing one who silently supports them by heart. Mark my words, you will soon face the wrath of God. Do not believe that you are safe behind your missiles and tanks. Were it not for your weaponry, you would not last a day against the indestructible people of Palestine.

And do not think that you have gotten away with your evil simply because the world’s leaders have yet to stop you. The vox populi has made it clear that your actions will never be forgotten. You are now not welcome anywhere else in the world. Wherever you go, you will be humiliated, shunned, and loathed. You will never feel safe anywhere except in the land you have stolen, and even that will not last for long.

Just wait. Wait for the day when you will beg and beg for death, but it never comes. The day when you will wish that you were never born, the day when it will become clear to you that your existence was merely a curse.

Stuck inside, my eyes sightful inwards;
I stand holding the bars within me that confine,
myself to a solitary recluse, darling;
I wish I could know what you mean,
when you tell me that it is you care;

I would pull myself out of the grave I’ve dug,
and rub my face with earth soaked;
from tears, and in stark disbelief,
was what I felt real?

With a blink of wet lashes weighed down;
give me a little nudge; poke a hole in me,
and I will bleed in water;
in lush roses and crying shrieks; this
deep anguish in me will vapor;

Into fumes of anger dissipating,
from the burning flames around my heart;
and I will fall right over you, kerosene;
my soul flaking with ash; and I will pass,
as you put your fingers through;
falling to particle, softly;

so will you give me a chance to hold on;
to hold on.

*

Lest we forget at least an over-the-shoulder acknowledgement to the very first radical: from all our legends, mythology, and history, the first radical known to man who rebelled against the establishment and did it so effectively that he at least won his own kingdom

-Lucifer.

Saul Alinsky

I met a man. A very strange man. A religiously charged man. A man of great girth, good nature, and bad hygiene.

Dan was two hundred and eighty pounds of regret, resentment, and right-wing conspiracies. The stench of cigarettes and soured milk permeated the air around him. He wore the default attire of a man who had long since given up: standard issue gray sweatpants, starched stiff with years of spilled shellac and various wood stains. Unsettling struggles between his belly and the elastic waistband occurred daily. Some he would win. On days the pants proved victorious, the people around him became the true casualties of war. A bulk-buy pocketed white tee-shirt was now a dingy map with continents of different colored chemicals demarcating distorted borders. Red, raw, irritated flesh hung loose from the tattered hem. Grease from his unwashed hair helped to paste it awkwardly to his forehead and nape. An aggressive gin blossom bloomed violently from the center of his soggy, flushed face where a nose might have once staked claim.

Although well-spoken and semi-intelligent, his level of cognitive dissonance was preposterous. A wild zeal for biblical literalism shaped everything around him in the worst ways possible, including strongly held political beliefs that often danced alongside delusion.

Originally from Arizona, leaping through life’s unlimited hurdles had landed Dan in southwest Arkansas, right along with the likes of me. I had spent the better part of the last decade slaving away as an underpaid general laborer at a locally owned, mom-and-pop hardware store where, since his arrival in Hope, Dan had become a regular visitor. Years spent as a construction foreman for some of Arizona’s most ambitious building projects had given way to sporadic, custom woodworking jobs and a serious struggle to survive. Loud and boisterous, he would blow through the double glass doors of our paltry repository and commence to blaming the world for whatever perceived infraction had been issued to him by the early morning news cycle.

"Good mornin’, sir,” I would greet him with my usual, tempered level of enthusiasm. “How’s everything in your world?”

“You know, just another day in Obamaville. Can’t seem to get ahead. Get up and go to work every day and feel like I’m bringing home less and less. And what they don’t take off the top they manage to steal little by little throughout the week. Gas prices are outrageous these days. It’s almost unfathomable.”

“I won’t argue with you about the gas prices, but is it really that bad out there?”

He wobbled up to the cashier counter and heaved all his upper body weight onto the faded Formica top for a quick respite. “Let me tell you, Jimmy, it’s worse. Worse than you can ever imagine. Or at least worse than I ever could. You probably enjoy watching our nation crumble under communist leaders.”

“Alright there, Mr. McCarthy.”

“Every time I turn on the T.V.—”

“There’s your fuckin’ problem, Dan.”

He shot me a hateful glare before he resumed: “Every time I turn on the T.V., there he is, your lovely little president, coming up with another way to cheat me out of mine and give it to those who don't want to work. All the while I’ve been reduced to living in a drafty-ass shanty of a house with no heat or air conditioning, which I can barely even afford to pay the rent on. I have felt like death damn near all year but have no insurance, so I can't afford to go to the doctor. I just suffer, and all because in the last three years the Democrats have single-handedly destroyed our once prevailing economy."

“Seriously? Single handedly? Like Bush Junior ain’t have nothin’ to do with it? Like the fuckin’ Federal Reserve wasn’t completely behind the housin’ market crash? Like all the sudden this one guy gets elected into office and the whole world does a flip the very next day? You’re fuckin’ delusional, Dan.”

“You’re just not seeing it there, little Jimmy. It’s happening. It’s happening right in front of your eyes and not a single one of you can see the forest for the damned trees.” He slapped one callused palm against the Formica for effect.

“Who and what are you fuckin’ talkin’ about?”

“Any one of you communist, Jesus-deniers who voted this Satanist into office.”

His attitude placed me on edge. His normally harmless rantings seemed suddenly unwound, violent. “Hold the fuck on. First, you said Obama was a communist. Now you’re tellin’ me he’s a goddamned Satanist?”

“Communist, anarchist, liberal, leftist—it’s all synonymous with Satanist. But to answer your question more seriously, yes, he is a puppet for the Satanic elite.”

All this fell from him with the seriousness of a divorce proceeding.

“And all this Occupy Wallstreet stuff is just a guise in order for him to institute martial law. You see, they are going to claim this whole protest—that was obviously set up by the Democrats— is unconstitutional and therefore illegal. Because of this, they will suspend democracy, putting Obama in power indefinitely.”

“You are absolutely bat shit crazy. You do realize that, right?”

He tugged madly at the tail of his shirt in a series of failed attempts to cover his unsightly flab. “Just wait and see, Jimmy. Wait and see.”

I walked down the center aisle and began shelving boxes of screws. Dan followed. “I mean, what makes you believe all this nonsense?” I asked. “Besides the Jesus shit, I pinned you for fairly intelligent.”

“See, there you go with that anti-Jesus rhetoric. You’re exactly like them.” He shifted his girth from one foot to the other.

“Don’t get off track now, Dan. Where do you hear this shit?”

He yanked at his frayed waistband, once again at war with decency, tottered briefly on his heels, and began a Bill Cooper-level paranoid diatribe straight from the pages of Behold a Pale Horse. “I’ve got a good friend that does a lot of over-the-road trucking. He called me super early this morning, when he was getting up”— he took a deep breath— “and said he was up in Montana and slept across from a railyard last night. Of course, that’s not the scary part. The scary part is that he said he got out of his truck and just sort of wandered around to try and unwind before going to sleep and said he noticed something awfully peculiar.”

I stopped my stock work and feigned interest. “Oh yeah, and what was that, Dan?”

“He said that every single boxcar in that yard was completely empty. Every single one of them.”

“And? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Are you dense? Have you not been paying attention over the last three years?”

I continued pulling boxes of screws from shipping totes. “Payin’ attention to what, exactly?”

“Seriously? You need to open your eyes, Jimmy. They are getting ready to round up any and all Christians, regardless of denomination and, much like the Jews of Nazi Germany, we will all be exterminated—”

“Whoa!" I said, dropping a box of drywall screws. Dozens of tiny dancers scurried across the concrete floor. “‘Exterminate’ is kind of a heavy word, don’t you think?”

“It’s the only word that describes what they plan on doing to us.”

“Well,” I said, squatting down to scrape up what I could of the lost fasteners, “if they are just roundin’ up Christians, I should be alright then.”

Dan lowered his head. “You laugh and make jokes, but once the Christians are all exterminated, the dissidents will be next.”

If you are struggling with grammar, formatting, or with any of the basic writing tools in your kit, read "Elements of Style"!!! It is such a good and smart read and explains things in very easy-to-understand and factual ways!! If you are a student or live near a library I almost guarantee the book is available there.

Good luck to all on your ventures hope my suggestion helps and would love to hear your thoughts after you've read it :)

I want to continue writing, but I feel bad because I had used writing because I was curious. It had spiraled into a new thing that I used for a month and now I’m learning at how much people hate Ai in the writing communities. If you want to hate feel free to, Jesus said to turn the other cheek when someone hits you. Also I’m not religious I’m just trying to find motivation and not flames or hate.

I was down in the dumps one night, and my dog approached me. We butted our heads together in an embrace, and I scratched his neck.

"What’s wrong with the world?" I asked.

He stared at me for a long moment, his brown eyes more serious than usual.

"The roots of belief do not necessarily need truth to grow," he said, his voice calm and measured.

I blinked. Once.

"An opinion can take form in reality without being based in reality."

I blinked again.

"And it can grow stronger with the denial of reality."

My blinking stopped entirely.

"And so, the sin of humanity is not that this is true, but in choosing to let it be our reality—when we were given the tools to avoid it."

We stared at each other.

"Holy shit, you can talk?" I finally managed.

He looked at me, his expression unreadable.

"No one will ever believe you," he replied with a slow blink of his own.

"But I—" I began, but he had already turned and trotted away, tail held high, leaving me gaping.

"I hate huskies," I muttered and slumped back into my chair.

This is a short little idea that came to my head one day but i’m not sure how to continue it. Should i have changed up the end a bit so i could continue it?

Mr. Crow

“i lay in this dull and empty room. there is no entrance but there’s exit. a singular window. this window sits in the center of a singular lackluster wall. each wall has the same shade, an eerie and depressing grey. though the only exit, the window leads to emptiness. a dark void in which not sound nor light travels. i dare not step into this void, for i’ll cease to exist.

i lay at rest in this room. it is my own world. my own universe. a universe in which hunger does not exist. a universe in which drowsiness does not live. there is no color, there is no thoughts. this room entraps each sound within. my breath creates its own wind, my voice creates its own vibration. i alone create existence in this very universe.

without the knowledge of how time passes, i simply sit. i sit for what feels like eternity. finally, my ears ring. i hear a sound i have yet to hear in this depressing world. the sound of wings flapping. i hear the sound of claws scratching on a window sill. i feel for the first time, a force other than the very wind of my own breath. i feel a slight breeze coming from the window.

with my right side facing the window, i turn my head then my body. i see it. i see a crow. a simple crow. it’s feathers so dark, it blends with the void and contrasts against the dull grey wall. i sit in confusion and in disbelief. i stare at this bird, for it is the first and possibly the last time i’ll see such a sight. the crow watches me back. he watches, tilting his head to the side as if trying to get a better view of me.

in the moment of us staring, i spoke. i spoke my first words rather than just making noise.

“do you know if-… if there’s a world beyond my own?”

i focused my eyes on the emptiness behind the crow.

“is my world the only one which exists in this void? is there life out there beyond my own, mr. crow?”

i not once thought of these questions. i never once questioned where i was or if there was anyone like me. this is what my heart felt in the moment. this is what naturally processed without a thought as i saw this bird. i sat in silence with the crow. i knew it was foolish to expect an answer from such a creature.

moments of nothing but silence passed. i held my head low, occasionally looking back up at the crow. it tilted its head back and forth every once in a while. finally a voice responded. it held me in a state of shock. in the eternal prison which i called my own world, a different voice from mine was heard. the crow had spoken.

in the moment of shock i experienced, i could not interpret what the crow had said. i raise my head slowly while asking,

“Mr. crow… - have you spoken?”

as i asked this question, i saw it. it no longer stood on the window sill for it had entered my domain. what i once recognized as a crow, the only company i had in this lonely void, had become an abomination. such a disfigured creature. it changed in shape before my very eyes. with the head of a crow and a horribly shaped neck, it’s body seemed to melt.

the very skin of the once called bird fell like liquid, as if water was spilled on a table and ran off its edges. it dripped slowly but heavily. it made no noise, it had kept its pitch dark color like the void. the creature stored no blood and felt no pain. with a horrifying transformation, i felt a new sensation. one i had yet to experience in this prison. i could smell. a smell so putrid and disgusting i could only hope that would disperse slowly.

“you and only you exist within this paradise. only you exist within this void. no other soul and no other flesh has ever existed beyond this confined room.”

the figure spoke. it answered the questions i thoughtlessly asked. i covered my own nose to try and get rid of the smell. it seemed to penetrate through the coverage. i could not escape it. i pushed through it and watched the figure. i watch it transform from what was once a normal sized crow to a now disfigured mixture of a crow and a human. it had attained the shape of the human body but held onto the features of a crow. “

Please check out my story on Inkitt, Of Sea and Shadow. Please be aware it's NSFW.

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/fantasy/1337295

When Isla swipes a purse, she has no idea that her victim is the most feared pirate captain of all. She tries to flee, only to end up a captive on his ship. What will he do with her?

I found this community through search, here is to hope someone wants to reply and echo their feelings after reading this? I am pretty anxious about the whole ordeal. My writing background may have helped, but the topic at hand is just... uncomfortable and nasty to face. Thank you for investing some of your time <3

"Hello everyone,

This message may come from an unexpected angle, but at this moment I really don't care. Looking back on a very intense year, including the passing of my mother and my father's wife, I am currently working on sorting out a number of things. This is one of them, because the underlying feeling is bothering me.

In short: I feel abandoned by the people who claim to be family. A certain part of that. As far as I'm concerned, it's not about my generation, because there is certainly something to be said that there is very little/no contact between cousins ​​and me. In that respect, it would have been nice if something had happened, but in a way I don't think it's strange either. Fine.

A number of uncles and aunts partly cared for my father during the hospital period and the stay in the recovery center afterwards, by visiting and helping out on occasion. I think that's nice. Also when he gradually became able to stand on his own two feet again, and life went on (or something like that). We're talking about three quarters of a year.

That does raise questions for me, though. I conclude: during that entire period, literally no one from this group looked after me. Then draw 1 line somewhere, because this feels to me like sick hypocrisy. What could the difference be? ‘He’ll be fine’ / ‘Someone who is younger, what does he need’ / ‘He lives a bit further away.’ Well, 35 km. Shoot me.

In the meantime, I have been contacted once by someone who will remain nameless, because there were nerves about how my father was doing. That was the start of the conversation, immediately. In this, I was the medium to perhaps find a solution, but not a goal in itself.

In recent years, I have learned not to expect, demand, or claim anything. You are not automatically entitled to anything in life. We all have our own lives, on our own or in a relationship, as I have experienced myself. And that is fine. However, I am ashamed of these people, who I thought liked me and that family was worth something. In case you've been thinking of me in the meantime: thoughts don't count for anything. Actions matter. That's what I'm working on, for me.

• UC394"

Im wanting to get better at writing short form poems. Not particularly looking to get published or anything but just wanting to write things to give to friends or commemorate occasions. What are some good resources or recommended reading for this?

The weed smoke in the air is clouding my vision

Doubting myself I can't make a decision

I'm paranoid, don't want to talk don't want to walk

I picture my father being surrounded with chalk

I'm shutting down dressed within the devil's crimson gown

A mad clown in tasked with making weak people frown

Silly giggles when the drugs smile your body wriggles

I've had enough liquor time ticker it passes fast

You best move yourself quicker lest you wanna be last

Nympho bimbo with a heart covered in old gold

Bingo bingo that's another problem solved

For a story long forgotten and left untold

Muting the voices of those used, abused and sold

Has anyone used either of these tools to publish pages? If yes, did it have any effect on your search rankings? I’d love to hear about your experiences and get recommendations for the best tool for SEO performance.

Hi,

The Behaviour Archives is an international club designed for anyone interested in creating and developing deep and complex characters for their narratives. By joining, you'll be provided with intriguing prompts, receive constructive feedback on your drafts, benefit from thorough proofreading, and even have the opportunity to see your works published on our club's website!

Whether you're an experienced writer or just starting out, this is a great opportunity to expand your skills, share your work, and get feedback in a supportive environment. And don't worry! If writing isn't your thing, you can still get involved by joining our Social Media, Recruiting, Graphic Design, or Proofreading teams!

In order to apply, click the link below and complete the form. It only takes around 15 minutes, and you'll receive a response shortly.

If you have any questions, don't hesitate to contact us on our instagram @thebehaviourarchives or send us an email at thebehaviourarchives@gmail.com. Let's explore the human mind together and create something amazing :)

https://forms.gle/6gvUrhP2L3KN28KHA We also have a website! theba.my.canva.site

“God dammit John you idiot, do better” Johnathan thought as he took his paint brush and struck it against the rough, white canvas. Every stroke was painful for him. Every line and inch of paint connecting to each other, was something he wanted to forget. Making him relive painful memories.  

John took the paintbrush and slid it down the canvas, painting all the black lines into a face. A face with its eyes gauged out and its throat and neck slit, with the red blood pouring from the cuts. The blonde haired waved in the air with the harsh storm overhead and the bright full moon beaming down on her lifeless corpse. Even thought it was just a painting, it felt just as real as anything else he felt.  

John then put the paintbrush down and took a step back. He gazed at all the lines in the dirt and blood of the painting.  
“Barbara” John said, his voice filled with a pain that he always tried to bury. The only light shinned down from the one hanging lamp above. Illuminating it.  

John then turned the lights on, and the rest of the small little art room he had for himself was covered with other paintings. He hung this new one up and gazed upon his work. His life.  

One of these stuck out to him. It was a painting of his grandmother.  

John stared at it for hours. The memory of this day came flooding back and shooting through his mind like volts through a car. He remembered sitting down in her room at the hospital, looking over her unmoving body and her lifeless eyes staring up at the celling. She wasn’t dead. She had not fell asleep with her eyes open. She was brain dead. Still alive, but not all at the same time. His mother was t her feet, crying and praying to the gods that she would come back to them. The doctors, even John himself, knew deep down she could never come back. “Scientifically Impossible” they say. But his mother never relented, she kept trying, keeping her alive on life support for a full year. The debts their family went through was a testament to that.  

After John snapped back to reality, he began to cry. Tears poured through his eyes, he tried to fight them. Stop them from coming.  

“Weakness. It is weak to cry” he thought to himself, smacking his skin and taking a knife in his pocket and then opening it and making a long cut down his arm. He deserved it. Deserved the pain for crying and for everything. It was his fault his grandmother had died. He told himself this near constantly. Even if he knew logically it was not true, emotionally he believed it. When his grandmother went into cardiac arrest that day, he thought she had a nightmare. Or something else was happening, so he did not tell his mother. After that, she was there in body, but not in spirit. He himself did not shed a tear. He barely even felt any sadness to speak of. Almost no one took notice, not even his mother. The only person who did was his friend Alijandro.  

“Please gods, bring her back to me” his mother begged. Sometimes he would even hear her in her room, crying, praying and begging. That was the thing that almost brought tears to his eyes. So much death. So much loss. He had always experienced it. It had become stale, bland, just a regular everyday occurrence.  

John wiped the tears away with aggression and anger at himself and threw the knife back into his pocket. He took a look around at his other paintings. They were all insane, dark, twisted and depressing. At least that is what his friend Alijandro says nearly all the time when he sees them. Some were hung up by a nail, some were on the ground, some even had paint spat onto the actual image. Something he never wanted to see again.  

Some were of his father hanging from a tree, death by suicide. Another was one where he was standing over a corpse. Someone he had murdered. His mother.  

For the next ten minutes, he sat in the darkness of the room, the quite whisper of the short air flowing through the windows and the only slight sound coming from the rain outside in the city Arkham.  

The tears kept coming, over and over again. His mind spiraled into misery, sadness, and pain.  

“Please gods make this go away” he said up and passed the window ceiling and to the cloudy skies. Make the pain go away please. Make this all end. Make the memories end. Please gods do this for me, and I will make my life yours he thought.  

But then he took a long look at the painting he did of Barabra and remembered the terrible thing she did, and that sadness was replaced with anger. Controlled anger, but still anger.  

Moments later, John gathered his thoughts, then his belongings, a black bag, some black boots, a black jacket and his glasses and left the room. 

I've been writing my entire life and I'm never going to stop. However, I've come across an adversary that is vocal in trying to speak doubt into my writer's pen. I'm always resisting to allow what's said stop me and thankfully victory is won whenever I create and post. Overall, my question to all you writer's is how do you deal with adversaries that are vocal and try their hardest to make you quit or doubt yourself? (It's my SO to be honest, smh, everytime I write I've noticed the slick talk. I can count on one hand how many people has "cared this much" about my lifestyle. What do you do?

I've been writing my entire life and I'm never going to stop. However, I've come across an adversary that is vocal in trying to speak doubt into my writer's pen. I'm always resisting to allow what's said stop me and thankfully victory is won whenever I create and post. Overall, my question to all you writer's is how do you deal with adversaries that are vocal and try their hardest to make you quit or doubt yourself? (It's my SO to be honest, smh, everytime I write I've noticed the slick talk. I can count on one hand how many people has "cared this much" about my lifestyle. What do you do?

A previous job of mine entailed driving around and visiting various business premises. One day a care home was added to my regular route. It was a dingy old converted Victorian house with red bricks. I was depressed before I even got out the van. I rang the bell and waited. After 5 minutes I began ringing repeatedly. Eventually the tiny slat on the security door slid open, and I was questioned about my intentions by a nurse with a very chilly demeanor. She reluctantly let me in and escorted me through corridors with cheap laminate flooring and harsh fluorescent lights, past sofas with old people watching daytime TV or burbling to no one. The whole place reeked of shit. I wasn't allowed to wander off alone, which was normal, but the staff were all totally silent, which wasn't. They seemed almost sullen. I carried out my routine collections and left.

Less than a month later, that care home was national news. An undercover reporter had filmed numerous cases of elder abuse and degradation. It was closed permanently and left to rot. I now wonder if the staff had deliberately left me waiting outside while they covered up any signs that something was amiss. If I had somehow gotten away from my escort and struck up a conversation with one of the residents, would they have tried to raise the alarm?

That sort of scandal happens strangely often. Is there a certain type of sadist who steers their career towards end-of-life care so they can torture vulnerable people? Or do well-meaning nursing staff simply become so jaded over time that they begin to take out their frustrations on the nearest easy target? Decades from now, will I be slumped on a tired leather armchair, hoping my nurse gets distracted long enough for me to slip a folded note to the boiler repair guy?

Thank you for reviewing my post! This is the first chapter of a fantasy/horror novel I am writing. I'm a novice writer and am eager to have honest feedback on my work. I'd add more setup/context, but this is the intended first chapter, so it should be strong enough to do that on its own.

Specific Feedback I am hopeful for:

• Would you keep reading?
• What would you say is the level of quality of my writing?
• Do you like the setup, or are you confused?

Any responses will be greatly appreciated! I thank you for your time and your efforts.

Link to the full first Chapter :
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YlDuS3w0bQWjURxHWq-066puHF1WxuiWJBLADgJGTt8/edit?usp=sharing

Thank you again for your time and interest in my project. I am grateful for any advice/feedback you can give. Have a good day!

Wrote this for class i just want some thoughts i felt like i was cooking

My Field of Dreams

Dreams are always fickle things, especially as a child. When I was a kid I never set goals for myself, and I never had dreams that were my own. I played basketball, but I never started playing because of some great destiny. No, I played because of my brother. Thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up was never a thought in my brain, I never thought I would grow up. Life for me when I was younger consisted of eating, sleeping, and video games. In my wildest dreams I didn’t think it would change. You could say these are my dreams, or you could say I was unaccustomed to change when I was young, and couldn’t see beyond two days. There is no way to see these as my dreams, because I was unaccustomed with the world, so I never dreamed until I became an adult. Now that I’m at an age I couldn’t think of being when I was young, I have to look around to see if my reality is what I dreamed of as a child, and it is. There isn’t much change to my lifestyle. I still eat, sleep, and play video games while I get paid for doing this. Military life is neither glamorous nor flashy, but it aligns with the reality I saw as a kid, because I only saw my present. My dreams only started after I became an adult, because now I have the wisdom to think about my future, and I’ll make these dreams align just the same as my childhood ones.

I used to cry in bed thinking about mum getting abused

I know that I'm ill in the head so do not get it confused

Sometimes I wanna hurt myself it feels weird to talk about

I just need to walk it out when theres no way to talk it out

I used to go to school with holes in my trainers and trousers

I keep a brave face for all of the cynical browsers

I think something in my brains shoddy scars over my body

Mood switches regularly its like tantrums are my hobby

I look in the mirror and think Brandon this ain't working

You can heal from all the burning but my hearts still hurting

The wicked wheels are turning time doesn't stop for learning

I'm not an alien but I don't feel like an Earthling