To Dye a Griffin

Everything starts out as a cause, something to fight for, to believe in. A cause is something that every human being needs because it gives them the will to live and survive in a bloodthirsty world of crooks and corporate raptors. It burns within us, a flame of desire and justification, the soothing quench of thirst or ease of hunger pangs. I had a cause, it was beautiful, as most causes start out to be.
They are not like us, their skin is dark and they are the work of the devil, carefully crafting the downfall of white civilization. That is why we rip our books from their hands and our education from their minds. That is why we treat them like dogs, throw sticks and clumps of dirt at their scrawny backs, and mock them in hidden fear.
Yet, what if they could be just like us, a hidden sense of humanity slowly willing itself to reveal to a sensitive and often cruel world. The darkened mothers clutch their children in mirroring affection of ours, and the darkened fathers surly feel a sense of pride at their own son’s achievements just as my father felt for me. When they run their fingers across lavish silks and gently fondle the smooth surface of expensive jewelry, they feel the same longing desire that I feel and ponder the same dreams of success and wealth. I can befriend them just as easily as one could befriend any other human being, and yet I cannot sympathize with or truly know their pain because I have never felt the cold shoulder of neglect. Nor have I felt the stinging venom of racism.
My audience can’t possibly understand my motives to understand my friends and neighbors, nor why I shed my lighter skin for the darkened hue of rich culture. They can’t possibly understand why I chose to burn my skin with sun lamps, twist taste buds with revolting pills, and slowly dye my skin with writing ink just to truly be able to say, "I’m sorry." To say those two words with the passion and true understanding, which I sought, would truly be gratifying, that would be a life’s achievement.
It is not that I am not proud of my own heritage and culture, but I am not proud of the fact we so easily mock them without the knowledge of what it is truly like to feel such bitter hatred for such a small factor of life.
My skin holds the delicate hue of darkness, and my mind is now ripe with knowledge of how they live even my body holds the scars of truth. A single scar running across my neck from a rope which tried to hang me, the bitter words of colleagues as they didn’t recognize me while dealing stinging accusations and swift blows.
But every hint of fragile beauty comes at a price; I now wield the pains of my forages, for my skin holds something far deadlier than hate or racism. I can’t feel the constant smear of death coursing throughout my body, but I know it’s there. Like a mocking plague my cancer is slowly eating the years from my life, twisting my fate from a knowledgeable being into a doomed individual. I have learned to accept and truly sympathize with the plight of others which I could not before… but as I clutch my bed sheets in building angst, I wonder for a fleeting moment… will anyone ever be able to truly understand my painful journey? Years from now, I hope that we can live side by side in peaceful harmony, without the fear of another color.
Peace comes at the cost of many deaths, but death in the end is only a slow journey towards something far more beautiful then a mortal’s existence.

Pretty

Pretty Anime

Motherly Love

tiny angel

[russian pic]

cuteness

i added the colored background to this pic with photoediting software. --- it only took a couple of minutes surprisingly

little girl w/h a hood, personally edited my me

Angel

anime angel

Favorite Lyrics (Poem to be found later)

Who made up all the rules?
we follow them like fools
believe them to be true
don't care to think them through
i'm sorry so sorry
i'm sorry, it's like this
i'm sorry, so sorry
i'm sorry we do this
and it's ironic too
cause what we tend to do
is act on what they say and then it is that way
who are they ,where are they
how can they possibly know all this
Do you see what i see
why do we live like this
is it because it's true that it's no one's business?

Goodbye Dearest Home

In Perspective of Mandi

The old wooden railing was course against my hand, each dip and groove with in the wood had become sanded over with time and use. Carefully I set my feet on the small ledge beneath the railing, pink slippers gripping gently to withered material. A small pink strand got caught within some unseen grove as I slid my foot up, level with the surface. The stairs moaned and creaked as I began to trek slowly up to the first floor, almost as if whispering its tragic goodbye.
Sunlight pierced through open windows bright rays dancing in the open rooms, specs of dust floating lazily within their warmth. I paused beside a window, peering out at our front lawn, the green blades still wet from a recent watering. Thick shrubs seem to beckon, their soft leaves almost wilting with our inevitable departure.
My mother called from somewhere outside, but I ignored her, moving to my empty room. Pink carpet stood, fluffed as always, I kicked off my shoes and began to carefully pick my way to the farthest wall. The lengthy fluff encompassed my feet, soft padding surrounding small toes and hiding freshly scrubbed feet. I shoved my hands into the thick strands; a sad smile seemed to flicker for a moment as I thought of how I would never again be able to relax in this comfortable room again, absent mindedly playing with fluffy carpet.
Mom was saying something, her voice carried throughout the empty hallways into my room, my mind wandering elsewhere. Large tears rolled slowly down my face, strands of hair whisking around in the light breeze, my beautiful home was soon to be another’s. Vaguely I wondered if they would tear up my beautiful carpet, throw it out in the trash, the comfort would be of no concern to them, they would probably see it as old and worn. My beautiful haven would be turned into a bleak, stereotypical American room with no offering of individuality.
Slowly I rose and went out the back door, past the poor and onto our swing set. The boards creaked as I carefully made my way up the weathered ladder and onto the small platform. Chains dangled and clanked quietly in soft summer sun, the slide glittering and gleaming in the beautiful weather. I could feel the sun and warmth upon my skin, yet it seemed so bitterly beautiful, I could not bring myself to enjoy it. How could a day so miserable be filled with such luxurious weather? It was, to say the least, ironic.
My mother stepped out on the deck, watching me as I breathed in deeply, then sat at the front of the slide. She beckoned slightly, but I ignored her once more, this was my last moment in my home and I was going to enjoy it the way I wanted to. I would relive all of my beautiful hours spent in the sun with friends, and all the nights I curled up on my carpet with crayons to draw, all of the times that I watched my mother stand in our bathroom and apply her makeup before she headed off to work. I slid down the warm slippery surface, looking up at my house and whispered softly, “Goodbye.”

Panther Pink

Bleak, dreary clouds floating amongst the sky, the echoing sound of my heels clicking rapidly along the linoleum floor, the dismal sight of students slumped against walls and in desks, filled with boredom and despair at the huge prison-like structure. Calming beige slowly drained the very life and energy from their once active caffeinated hearts. As clearly as a red Crayola crayon on white paper, I could envision my day with monotone hatred, each thing would be the same a usual and every class would be an endless repetition of topics and memorization. It was sure to be an awfully normal school day.
I ruffled through my large bag-like purse, gigantic sequins glittering in the harsh artificial light, huge beams of pink blinding students rushing to their classes in the last escaping minutes of freedom. Every scrap of make-up and every sliver of a pen seemed to have slipped into some unknown crevice of my blinding contraption of a purse. Even my magazine offered no consolation, for the cover was sadly torn in the corner, leaving the glossy picture unfinished and mundane against the scratched lacquer desk before me.
My short Asian friend slumped in her desk, sleep deprived, and conversation-less, even as my planner bounced off of her ruffled hair… She remained immobile. Her hair fell slightly as her head mildly moved, or maybe twitched, a shower of silken strands.
Then he walked through the door, as a king upon his brightly colored balcony, he stepped with a grandeur air. A luminous and holy halo upon his shiny head of raven hair as the fluorescent beams (uniquely combined with glass) sent prisms of color to grandly accent his entire personage while simultaneously accenting his salmon colored shirt.
Quickly I looked down to my own, wonderfully coordinated outfit to discover that I too was adorned in the luxurious color which defined the heavens… The color of PINK. A radiating joy filled me for I knew that this was the beginning of a new era, the era of pink shirted men! I threw down the handles my purse and jumped to my feet, an ecstatic joy rising within me!
“ROBEY!” I cried aloud, the entire class falling silent as they glanced between the two of us, even my sleeping companion managed to pull her head from her desk to look.
“ROBEY YOU’RE IN PINK!”
His head bobbled enthusiastically, as he put his hands on his hips and straighten into a rather little kid/superhero pose, beaming with the utmost joy. He paraded in front of the classroom, turning elegantly at each end of the room and walking like a lion before its pack filled with resounding power and … well… pinkness.
Today, would be the day I would tell my grandchildren of, for today I had influenced a teacher into a better fashion sense and much more coordinating outfit. Today, one of the male teachers at Central High would turn heads and receive many a flaunting comment for today he was wonderfully dressed.

Asraif the Last Lion

Flaked dirt crunched and crumbled beneath his worn paw, claws gently tested the earth, a tongue flicked over parched lips. The sun beat down, warm rays slowly cooking his aged skin stretched far over tired ribs. A pang of hunger and pain taunted his stomach of the last bountiful meal he had tasted, almost eight years ago.
Prey was no where to be seen, as was the way now in once plentiful Africa. Asraif, the last lion lay down beside a contaminated watering pool, staring at the big city lights before him. Once he had not known what people were, now they crowded him and buzzed around, hungry bees looking to destroy his home. Glazed golden spheres started gloomily out upon the prairie, every blade of grass seemed to be kinked with the boot of man, every home trampled, every prey killed. There was simply no more room.
Asraif lapped the tainted water slowly; a slow wince crossed the withered face, for this was not the water he had wanted upon a final day. The loneliness ensued, his breaking heart once more; the massive mane tilted towards the heavens and he roared the fiercest roar a lion could muster the roar of his ancestors who had owned the plains with their lionesses and younglings.
As he roared his pained story, man snuck up to him, rifle clutched tight in a greedy palm, fat lips puckering with self-congratulation. His beady eyes squinted in the bright sunlight, sweat dripping on pricey silk clothes, gold weighing heavily upon his neck and within an embroidered wallet. Man transformed before the mighty Asraif into the true embodiment of greed and lust.
Asraif the last lion fell to the ground, a shattered heart bleeding upon his chest with a single silver bullet shot directly through it. He shed one tear, neither for himself nor his extinct brethren, but for the loss of humanity in mankind. The lions ceased to be, and man walked on to buy another electronic toy, leaving a tired lion pelt to rot in the hot and poisoned plains.

Meeting With Maddock - Part One

The pencil scrawled slowly across the page, soft scratches barely audible against the low murmur of classmates, led carefully inscribing small ancient reincarnations of old rituals. My "table mate" dozed quietly in the adjoining chair, his long shaggy head drooping closer to the thick textbook with every word spoken by our instructor’s monotone voice, I desperately longed for the luxury of sleep, but one of us had to stay attentive. I could almost feel the stinging pain of a hand cramp from the essay we would have to complete if Werewolf was to be found asleep in class again. Quietly I focused my mind on the change, the slow ripple and mutation of flesh, the silent beauty of lethal attributes brought to the surface. Change for a werewolf is simple lust and passion brought forth to carry out the deepest desires of a impure soul; however for a dragon, it is the most beautiful and exciting commitment to the boundaries of the unknown. Change becomes the most intricate and intoxicating rush for a dragon of higher powers, every crunch of bone and rip of flesh lends not only minor pain, but inexplicable power. Beautifully sleek midnight scales sprouted, the soft puncture of skin as lethal claws extended and glittering armor unveiled its infallible strength. Soon my entire arm was clad in the rich sensual beauty of a dragon's exterior, the werewolf's throat lay exposed with the steady rise and fall of his breaths, I placed one claw under his throat and pressed. A drop of rich crimson blood trickled down, an enticing scent only we could smell, a potential threat in the form of hostile play that no teacher could detect.Muscles are located in the throat as well, their stringy presence stiffed in the clammy room as his heightened sense of smell began to pick up the terrifying scent of his own blood dripping slowly on his throat. Soon his entire body grew rigid, large brown eyes turned slowly to meet mine, one claw gently brushed the rough bristles on his cheek, his terror and unadulterated rage were enthralling at the very least. I purred in his ear softly, "Maddock, my love, I do believe it’s time to rise and shine." His fear vanished as rain on the hot Saharan desert sand, the wolf within him begged to come to the surface and slash my face with talons gifted from the moon herself. He was furious and bewitching simultaneously, the small tremors of violence gently whipped through his body, adrenaline pumped, the irises of his eyes glowing with an unearthly hatred.
I was spellbound, this new version of Maddock O'Connel was something far more unrestrainable than the tamed pet he had once been. I gently pressed my lips to the corner of his mouth, a raw cinnamon taste seemed to explode with within my own, his body trembled with impassioned urge. Suddenly the strong noble creature before me seemed far too powerful, it was truly unfathomable how one being once so infantile could suddenly be so graced with strength and domination. I reclined again, the change long gone, Maddock snarled softly as our naive professor approached once more. A mild warning dancing within my thoughts as I listened to him fume in his seat, gnashing sharpened teeth, and muttering obscenities under his breath.
As the bell for class rang out our freedom i glanced back almost curiously at him. His dark eyes glittered with mischief as he slumped in his seat, watching me. His lips pressed tight in malicious smile, a mind carefully crafting many things, most likely lethal things.

Emotion's Master

Dark eyes cast their glance upon me once more,
Midnight diamonds waiting patiently
Carved deep within a serpent’s plotting skull
They are daggers in their silent keep,
Quietly slashing at guilt and wounded pride
A thin, gulling grin, flashing white teeth
Fangs of a cobra, filled with venom
Which drips and spills with every word
His small nose is a symbol of hatred
A hawk’s beak pointed hungrily at its prey
Fingers are long claws, stretched impatiently
Curved, angry talons of a caged eagle
Eagerly slashing at the nearest being
His tongue is the worst, forming words
A ribbon silk, gently crafting evil phrases
Redder than the color of fallen leaves
It’s crimson beauty surpassed only by passion
The passion to control and enslave others
In his mind he is no longer emotion’s slave
This dark and malicious being has surpassed all
To become the master