|portrait of the self (standard:poetry, 262 words)|
|Author: Unsun||Added: May 06 2001||Views/Reads: 1829/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|I don't know why don't you read and find out eh? eh?|
The cheek lines are dark sullen stone, carved of anger. They belong to a face better suited for mirth. Preferably sarcasm with more than a hint of cynicism and morbidity. But they bare a scowl with a comfortable ease that disturbs him, and me. The cheek lines lead on up and dissapear just before his hair. Cropped short almost to the scalp. And each hair leans forward, a bristling wall of spears. Ending in a widows peak on a high smooth forehead. Adorned with dark feathery eyebrows. Furrowed with thunder and menace. They warn of a storm thats already here. Brown amber eyes he has been told are "kind". He's not sure he believes it now. Now the glass reflects a different picture. The eyes are pitted in blackness. Two deep wells, impenetrable, insoluble. They are the darkness that scares a small child at night, convinces him of monsters beneath his bed. Two black pits. leaving only his feathered brow to show his mood. He sits low in the chair, with one leg braced on a nearby bed. His right hand hides a mouth of thin red lips and sharp predatory canines. His left arm lies languidly on the chair arm. It's pale slender form, with thin barely visible hairs, is marred with a collage of thin red lines and scabbrous blood. And it only makes him angrier, when his vision blurs, as two teardrops wind their way down his parched face.Hes lost control again, or maybe.... he never had it. He focuses on his arm, at least he can avoid crying. Tweet
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