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Even as a small child, I was obsessed with fiction and storytelling. Before I knew how to read or write, I passed the time by telling scary stories to my sister and cousins, convincing them of the most outrageous things, and often instilling fear, which would keep them awake at night. I often got in trouble for scaring family and friends, and telling tall tales so well, that my listeners believed them to be true. Reading became a hobby in third grade. I started with R.L. Stein, was reading Stephen King novels by fourth grade, and was up to Edgar Allan Poe, William Golding, Anne Rice, and H.G. Wells by 5th grade. My passion for storytelling, coupled with my passion for reading, naturally developed into a writing addiction. I loved playing with words, enjoyed grammar, and liked writing from strange perspectives. I wrote short stories, long stories, and fictionalized diary entries based on my own life.

I tried to keep an accurate diary or journal, but simply writing redundant facts of what I'd done that day seemed so boring. I didn't enjoy writing in my journal, and never bothered going back to read it later. It felt pointless and dull, though I wanted to document the details of my life to refer to later on. One very strange day, I was upset over something that seemed extremely important at the time, though I can't recall what it was now. I had to write it down, but basic descriptive language simply wouldn't do. No traditional account of "this is what happened" and "this is how it made me feel" could every describe what I felt that day... and so I wrote a poem. Perhaps the first poem I'd ever written, at age 14. With poetry, I was able to describe my feelings, my experience, my state of mind in a much more unconventional and accurate way... and I enjoyed writing it! It wasn't just a redundant statement of what had happened, but an experiment with words, twisting and manipulating the English language to suit my current state. It felt also very personal, for I am perhaps the only one who could have truly understood what it all meant. And I enjoyed reading it days later. From that day, I began keeping journals where I would pour my mind into its blank pages each day, in poetic form. I've been a poetry addict ever since, and despite my optimistic and happy-go-lucky personality, my poetry tends to be on the darker side. Perhaps this is how I express the inner darkness that is contained within us all.

::03:03:08::

::: Delusional Ways of Unpassing Days :::

Moving against the light
An opaque being, trying to fight
Fight the luminous rays
And the mild ways of the passing days
My façade an elaborate sham
Why must you see me for what I am?
From my senescent fatality
I’ve abandoned mortality
I’m a truant to my humanity
Embarrassment to insanity
You must give me some indication
That there is a vindication
For my delusional ways
Fantasy rays of my passing days
Life’s scintillating bits of fiction
Have become my guilty addiction
Leave me in repose, but in chains
Inject it through my eager veins

Still unscathed by the light
An opaque being tries to fight
Fight the rays with delusional ways
Fantasy plays in unpassing days
My face is hidden, madam
You shan’t see me for what I am
Senescence is a brutality
From my abandoned reality
You know nothing of insanity
Only of your own sin: vanity
I offer you no vindication
You look at me in admiration
Of my delusional ways
Fantasy plays in unpassing days
My life scintillates with crass fiction
A lovely little addiction
I’d break through these fictional chains To inject another shot through these veins

A constant fight with the light
To keep the days from passing
To keep myself out of sight
Reality harassing
Leave me alone with this thought
Real truth shan’t give a damn
With lying dreams, I am fraught
And you shan’t see what I am

Written by: ~ Sky

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