#1
One day upon the dawning of my life,
I wrote upon some paper a little story.
A story about a boy, who was but young 16.
A boy who laughed, a boy who cried,
a boy who smiled a smile so wide.
He had no image of this time,
he was fragile and strange.
He screamed without fear what was on his mind.
whilst his thoughts ran through clouds of confusion and randomness.
I carved him a heart, of reflected beauty.
A heart of pure glass.
So one day I gave the boy a pretty image.
a picture I came upon.
A native american decent long hair
jet black and shiney, but glasses to flatter his big beautiful eyes.
I gave the boy some clothes.
A large black sweater and some baggy pants,
his sleeves overlapped his gentle hands,
a necklace meaning "twin moon" dangled upon his chest.
The boy, filled with glee, touched every heart and soul he came upon.
Then a man asked of his voice, and a woman did too.
Many people asked of his voice.
So I gave the boy a voice, and he prepared to speak...
...and the highest of voices shrieked out in timidness.
There must be some mistake, I thought. This is not the boy's voice.
This was not the voice I wanted, this was not the voice I imagined.
So I twisted and twisted his personality thus, perfecting his glitches and tweaks.
So a few months passed and many spoke to the boy.
Such a mob of many people, so sad and so happy.
I continued to tweak him, unaware of the pain.
The ink on the paper faded,
his image scattered like rain.
Then a man asked of his voice. And a woman did too.
Many people asked of his voice.
So I gave the boy a voice, and he prepared to speak...
...and the highest of voices shrieked out in timidness.
There must be some mistake, I thought. This is not the boy's voice. This was not the voice I wanted, this was not the voice I imagined.
I looked inside the boy's heart, and he had gotten soft.
Too much contact with the world and its inhabitants.
His perfection was crumbling, his thoughts filled with sadness.
I held him and his little glass heart began to break, and little pieces of glass shattered onto the ground.
Frantically I cried, picking up the pieces.
I took a small piece and examined it close.
Within the reflection, my face stared back.
So I felt myself whimper, and I prepared to speak,
...and the highest of voices shrieked out in timidness.
There must be some mistake, I thought. This is not the boy I made. This was not the boy I wanted, this was not the boy I imagined.
But staring into his shattered glass heart, I realized there
was no boy.
There was only a torn piece of paper.
There was only me.
"I'm pre-blown dude, it's like pre-heat, you know, how you set it up to blow, im already pre-blown, so im already hooked up, does that make no sense? of course it don't. Dimebonic's baby"-Dimebag Darrell
"Nazi Gangsta Jew"
#2
Wonderful. I loved the way you managed to make such a poem out of something so small. I liked the way you used glass as a big part of the description, and the torn paper was like broken glass.

Made me think of Pinnochio, which I know sounds stupid, but it did.
I play by my own rules. And I have one rule; There are no rules... but if there are, they're there to be broken. Even this one.


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