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Literature Text
How it feels to trail your hand through dew-stained grass on an Autumn morning. The cold runs through your veins from the tips of your fingers, ice splashed across your palm like a shotgun wound.
How it feels to lay face down on tarmac in Summer. To totally relax. You feel the heat seep through your clothes, between your fingers; it blankets you, keeps you warm.
To sit outside in a thunderstorm, silently screaming at the sky; searching for that extra bright star that should be there, he has to be there! To not notice that you're drenched to the bone, because you simply don't care anymore. To wait until your hands and feet are numb, until the water soaks through your trousers, creeps down your neck; until no part of you can escape the rain. Until the cold reaches your heart. To grieve.
To lay perfectly still in bed at the end of the day.You feel nothing, begin to question if you're still there.
To be in your lover's arms. To know the world is fine, because you can hear their heartbeat.
To play with a candle flame. To watch it lick at your fingers as it dances through shades and hues. To watch it flicker in time with your breathing. To dance with danger.
How it feels to lay face down on tarmac in Summer. To totally relax. You feel the heat seep through your clothes, between your fingers; it blankets you, keeps you warm.
To sit outside in a thunderstorm, silently screaming at the sky; searching for that extra bright star that should be there, he has to be there! To not notice that you're drenched to the bone, because you simply don't care anymore. To wait until your hands and feet are numb, until the water soaks through your trousers, creeps down your neck; until no part of you can escape the rain. Until the cold reaches your heart. To grieve.
To lay perfectly still in bed at the end of the day.You feel nothing, begin to question if you're still there.
To be in your lover's arms. To know the world is fine, because you can hear their heartbeat.
To play with a candle flame. To watch it lick at your fingers as it dances through shades and hues. To watch it flicker in time with your breathing. To dance with danger.
Literature
Falling
"Did you fall for me?" A long pause. "Yes."
Tonight I figured out why they call it falling.
Standing on a ledge, it's your choice. Jump or don't?
Your choice is not made without coaxing, of course. Words like "What's the worst that could happen?" or "Maybe things will be different
this time." flood your ears and push you forward. Your voice of reason is all but forgotten. It's pleas for you to stop and think are ignored.
So you jump.
And it's a rush.
Your heart is pounding like it might explode, and you feel... invincible. Untouchable. You close your eyes and can imagine that you are not falling, but flying.
And you can only hope tha
Literature
Sacrfices Made for Perfection
Every person who wakes up in the morning, every person who breathes air, every person who laughs and cries, they all strive for the same thing. Some are conscious of this longing, others are not. It doesn't matter which, but deep down every human being strives for perfection.
Wishes float in purples skies of brilliance. These wishes are for abilities far beyond those of anyone living. Athletes want to run like cheetahs and have the strength of bears. Singers cry themselves to sleep at night, yearning for the talent of angels. Mothers want to love and always be loved in return, whilst carpenters want their work to be as intricate as
Literature
Break Away
"Do you want to go away?" A question was asked.
"From where?" The Other's words were swimming with uncertainty.
"From here." The Speaker's voice lowered, " From them."
"Well, yeah. But.... Where can we go...?"
Dismissing the Other's point, the Speaker said, "That doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters!" Came the heated objection.
"No, it doesn't." Soft, soothing words calmed the air, "We'll just take one step and then another and see where we end up."
"But what if we end up in an even worse place?" Frowned the Other.
"Then we'll keep on walking. It's not hard, and maybe one day we'll end up in a nice place that we'd like and –" H
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Hi! This is DictionaryKiller from 
here to give you a critique.
Now, in parts your words here were amazing. I especially liked "ice splashed across your palm like a shotgun wound", but I'm having trouble getting a feel of the peice. Being all over the place isn't a bad thing, but even in the midst of disorder there has to be a string connecting each thought, if only jsut barely.
So even as each thought was written exceptionally well there was no main idea that brought them all together. It was, as you stated, random. In this case, too random, and because of this, the peice has lost the power it would have held if the was an underlining theme connecting them all.
But I liked this peice regaurdless. Personally, I found your style to be very emotive and interesting. All you need is to gather your thoughts better, figure out which senteces are relative and which are better left unsaid or rather, saved for another work.
Happy writing!
here to give you a critique.Now, in parts your words here were amazing. I especially liked "ice splashed across your palm like a shotgun wound", but I'm having trouble getting a feel of the peice. Being all over the place isn't a bad thing, but even in the midst of disorder there has to be a string connecting each thought, if only jsut barely.
So even as each thought was written exceptionally well there was no main idea that brought them all together. It was, as you stated, random. In this case, too random, and because of this, the peice has lost the power it would have held if the was an underlining theme connecting them all.
But I liked this peice regaurdless. Personally, I found your style to be very emotive and interesting. All you need is to gather your thoughts better, figure out which senteces are relative and which are better left unsaid or rather, saved for another work.
Happy writing!