killed by a dead woman.

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“We don’t interfere with death. It’s not our’s to decide, after all who are we to hasten it’s domain? Death is kind, death is patient and above all – it is inevitable.”

A wicked glint danced in the heroes eyes, as he bent forward to pluck the dagger out from the dying sidekick. The ruby in the serpent’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Your death on the other hand, was necessary. I am simply restoring order to the universe and its almost poetic, no? To be killed by a dead woman’s weapon.”

Inspired by the song – “House Of The Rising Sun” by alt-J

End of the line.

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end of the line

I read the song of achilles (stellar book btw) and immediately thought of writing something with an opposite dynamic.

Its my second, slightly less bad attempt at poetry 🙂

I know we are at the end of the line
Through mascara stained tears
And palms sweaty with panic inducing fear
To you this is my final goodbye
But just know that I am in your corner
Till the end of time

Sunsets and storms.

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sunsets and storms

Tried something new today. Here is my first attempt at writing poetry 🙂
I know that even the strongest trees can be struck by lightning,
I know that even the sturdiest of boats can fall to the raging sea,
That picturesque sunsets are also shadowed by darkness.
Then why am I unable to let go?

What is a hero without her villain.

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Trigger warning – contains themes of self harm and domestic violence.

The hero was taken aback. Sure, she had hurt him before. Come close to killing him more times than she could count, but crossing that line had never been a part of the plan. After all what is a hero without a villain? The banters, the skirmishes, the fighting – it was all just a game. An elaborate show with a cocky antagonist and an un-deterring protagonist.

Rainbow coloured footsteps.

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No matter how much we tell ourselves otherwise, even the most spontaneous fall into routines. We go to the places in which we lose the tension in our shoulder, grab the moments when we truly breathe. Before we know it, these glimpses of comfort turn into a routine, a colour shade we paint our footsteps in.


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“I don’t know and I don’t care, pin it on traditions if you like but let’s just go.”
“You know how I feel about tradition.”
“It’s just peer pressure from dead people” he finished in an exasperated sigh.

Not a monster.

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She whispered barely audibly as she continued to hold the knife in place – “I’ve done monstrous things but that doesn’t make me a monster.”

Heroes don’t exist.

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heroes dont exist - amidst

“And you think you are so morally right, as if the bloodshed isn’t your doing too. Please remember that heroes don’t exist, that goodness is an illusion; because what seems heroic to you is always, and I mean always, villainous to someone else.”