Legend of Krystal Forums

Almost Dead
By Sam scribbleuplastname
(Or to you guys, Sugarcookie)
I hear yelling, screaming
The door is kicked open
My feet scrape against the pavement as I run for my life
I slow down, trying to conserve energy
I look behind me, and there he is, right there, face red with rage.
I sprint, far away from there
I got away, but now where do I go?
When in doubt, walk toward my friend’s house
It is an awkward walk, cars driving by, paranoia every time
I get to Dodge, and cross the bridge
I should have looked before walking past the pillar
They couldn’t see me, and I couldn’t see them
Now I’m laying down the in the ditch
My lungs hurt, I hear tires screeching away
The pain turns to numbness, my ears start ringing
The cold night air passes over my lifeless body
Not a thought crosses my brain, my mind is empty
But at the same time, fully aware
Am I dead? I know It’s so cold, but I don’t feel it
Then a car pulls nearby, its tires moving under the dirt on the road
I hear the doors slam shut, and then my body moved to the backseat.
…
I’m still alive, I wasn’t hurt, and I just simply lost the will to continue
A lifeless vessel, brought back by a hug and an apology
Adolescence brings tears, emotions, confusion… and now I’m grounded.

"A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles roll

ed into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full.. The students responded with a unanimous ‘yes.’

The professor then produced two Beers from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand.The students laughed..

‘Now,’ said the professor as the laughter subsided, ‘I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things—-your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions—-and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car.. The sand is everything else—-the small stuff.

‘If you put the sand into the jar first,’ he continued, ‘there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life.

If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness.

Spend time with your children. Spend time with your parents. Visit with grandparents. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and mow the lawn.

Take care of the golf balls first—-the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the Beer represented. The professor smiled and said, ‘I’m glad you asked.’ The Beer just shows you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of Beers with a friend." -Some guy on tumblr.

The Ground
By dsfhjkshfj Me
I couldn't find anything better to write at the timeThe ground is always there for us, like a friend would. The ground provides us things, and supports us and our homes. Yet we walk all over it. The ground is always there when we fall, but if we fall to the ground we see it as degrading, being the lowest place we could fall.
We stick it full of holes, corrupt it, stick things in it, but the ground is still there, putting up with our abuse. We take the good, and fill it with bad, leaving ugly scares on the face, but it continues offering us more.
Occasionally, the ground gets sick, has earthquakes, volcanoes, etc. We just blame the ground, shun it and punish it. But the ground doesn’t apologize, it doesn’t gloat, it just sits there and lets itself get sick again, too passive to get rid of conscience plague on his skin.
Slowly dying, trying to provide for all, the ground is the best kind of friend one could ask for, and we continue to plague it and take from it. Instead of being a friend, maybe the ground is our mother. She provides even when it hurts her.
And when we don’t need her, or when there is nothing more she can offer, we move on and leave the scars behind. Humanity won’t last forever on this planet, not enough resources to go around. Even if mother’s kids fight, and blow each other up, she will shelter them within herself.
She will still be there, devoid of life, being the lowest place you can fall, back to your mother. The ground makes a great analogy, and comparing the ground to my mom either makes me scum, or unimaginative enough come up with something better.

A cookie jar is like a whore. Many people are inside of it, people take stuff out of it until it’s empty, and some people like to hide it from others. A cookie jar is a mother bucking whore!

Good Writing
By, Not You
What is good writing? Is it when someone expresses their feelings properly, in a catchy, rememberable way? Well when one person starts it, they began a movement. Their art became famous, loved by many. When others joined this, wonderful world of writing, the group got larger.
However, when producing their own writing, instead of writing original art like they should, instead of expressing themselves properly in catchy and rememberable ways, they simply copied famous styles, wrote something just like their inspiration, and basically changed the words on a famous poem.
And they were praised by their peers. For the first time, they were praised for copying a style. They had, before, written their own work, something actually original, and catchy, and effectively expressing themselves, but no one cared. Is the famous style better? Of course, it’s famous, but why receive praise by recreating something that everyone loves?
Why don’t people like new and original art? Everywhere you look you’ll see artists trying to be different, but not getting any attention to truly wonderful pieces of art. You’ll also see people repeating other styles. A style that by now has been done to dirt, forced to be recreated everywhere you go. Let’s hope you too, like the style or you may end up hating most independent writers.
Come judgment day, these writers who were original may be lucky, be noticed by people who are finally sick of writing and seeing the same thing over and over again, and they will rise to fame, hopefully not loosing themselves along the way.
And then, their art has also becomes the format for others. The cycle continues, unintelligent and unoriginal people continue to get public fame by copying styles, being praised for work that has already been done many times before. Is this world truly adept in art? Do people really want to be other people more then being themselves?
I guess there are three kinds of people in world of art. Those who can write, those who can’t, and those who can copy. If you think you can’t write, you’re probably self doubting yourself, and you can. If you think you can write, you’re probably just copying art into your own words, and if you think your copying, you probably are and you can’t write.
But no one said you have to do one thing. Explore, have fun, express yourself, and be yourself. Just because you can’t or think you can’t write, doesn’t mean you can’t learn or better yourself. Just be yourself, and keep trying.

The Song
Robert AKA riddlebox1321
In the beginning
There was a song,
And it took breath into the dark-
Air.
It saw the glow in the darkness-
Fire.
It felt the rain,
And the fog,
Then breathed it in with a yawn,
Then finally felt it harden to stone
Under its guiding psalm.

It witnessed the birth
Of a new world,
And named it Earth.
Then sighed
And on its breath was sung a verse.
And from this verse
Was the birth
Of life.
And out of the ground
The song watched each life rise.

But then the song became lonely,
Because none of the lives heard its story
Or sung it back.
So the song created a new life,
And named it Anima.
And from Anima came a voice,
And as Anima diversified
Into many lives
So did its voice.

From high to low
Deep to shallow
Subtle to loud
Each animal sung back
And this made the song proud.

But one animal did not always sing back.
One animal saw that it had a choice
Of whether or not to let ring its voice,
And this brought great confusion to the song,
For this animal,
This human kind,
Had a very unique voice,
A very beautiful voice,
And sometimes
A very powerful voice that shook the earth in unison.

The song was sad once more
And cried
“why?”
But the humans never answered.
So the song continued to cry
And from each tear the stars were born.
And each night the animals would watch the tears in the sky and sing.
But as with all things
It did not last.

And of the humans who continued to sing?
Well I am one of them
And my song is poetry.

Tell me when you’re ready.

Blue
by Yzer on Sunday, August 8, 2010 at 1:20pm ·

I need to reach the place where the sea touches sky
Equllibrium begins to sicken me.
I close my eyes only to see others gazing upon me,
they are not the same as before.
Wind carries the scent of spring,
My lungs fill with sand.
I reach out to touch the face of a stranger,
as the burning sensation corrodes my thoughts.
Floating on a tide of uncertianty
I dwell on the decisions that let to this point.
A cruel reminder of the sea; a harsh reality.
The intimacy of the moment fills my heart with sorrow,
for a love that once was.
I wish only to bend sanity,
distorting the fabric of cruel reality,
and meet with you where the sea touches sky.

Nanashi (No-Name)
by Yzer on Tuesday, December 14, 2010 at 5:57pm ·
Nanashi (Nameless)
Soul contained within a nameless blade
an oath destined to be broken
I have felt the sting of a thousand blades
but none can offer me death
two hearts collide in open battle
only one will remain

Crimson rains into the sky
pray as you may
you will find no gods here
clutching the remaining life in your body
you will watch the lotus fall gently
and kiss the blood soaked earth

Vixen Of The Night
by Yzer on Friday, January 14, 2011 at 11:56pm ·
I have met many women along my travels,
memories of them both foul and sweet,
but none have given me as much pleasure as
the vixen of the night.

She is the embodiment of excitement and pleasure,
bringing ecstasy and ruin to all men in her wake.
Her eyes; pools of the clearest ice, could stop the
bravest of men, and make them beg for mercy.

You are lucky ever to gaze upon her body,
the climax of male fantasy,
but you are the most unfortunate creature;
to ever fall in love with a vixen.

One moonlit night
i had experienced the greatest pleasure
a memory i will not soon forget;
falling prey to the vixen of the night.

Not being able to resist, i gave in
to the sweet call of her angelic voice,
lips of the purest poison,
the caress of a goddess.

That night i learned
true pleasure,
the object of utmost desire
and what it is to be a man

Her venom now coursed through my veins
and to her dismay,
i did not fall,
beg and cry for mercy.

i stand the only man
to gaze upon her body
taste lips of purest poison
and live to tell the tale.

her memory,
still fresh in my mind,
gives me shivers of shrill pleasure
that deny me the thrill of any other.

Upon the soil, on rainy days,
A man looks at the sky, and prays.
Does he wish for peace? Or for war?
For eternal love? Or for a whore?

Every virtue has its sin,
Man's worst foe often lies within.
We've seen it happen, time after time,
When tyrants preach, and subjects mime.

When power turns a heart to black,
His fellow man one doth attack.
And so, I ask each one of you,
keep thy heart humble, to keep it true.