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raw with love Nov 2015
(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.
Wilson Jan 2015
Airs : Tuesday, at 20:00 on FOX
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===>>> WATCH HERE FULL ONLINE HD <<<===

Plot Overview :
After Rachel's humiliating failure as TV actress, she comes home to Lima to figure out what she wants to do next. Upon discovering that Sue has banished the arts at McKinley, Rachel takes it upon herself to reinstate and lead the Glee Club. Meanwhile, Blaine, no longer in a relationship with Kurt, has moved home to coach the Warblers while Will is coaching rival Vocal Adrenaline, and Sam is the assistant coach for the McKinley football team.
this TV Shows have TV-14 Certification.

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~Premiere~ Glee Season 6 Episode 1 "Loser Like Me" FULL Episode 6x1
Miss Clofullia Aug 2018
we're gonna die at some point
and all that we're gonna leave behind us is a bunch of
bad reviews and 2 star ratings
for restaurants that didn't treat us right,
for uber drivers that were too quiet or too loud,
and airline companies that were responsible for 16 long hours
in an airport with too much light and no air.

the day will come and none of us will be ready,
even though some might lie about it, with a cold smile on their face.
there will be no bargaining then,
all the money in the world will be as useless as a pair of flip-flops to a legless person.
for sure, we'll regret using the expression "no regrets!" too often,
instead of accepting our vulnerabilities and our imperfections.

we're gonna die seeing our mother's smile
and hearing our father laughter,
from the day we were born.
just like then, we won't know for sure whether
this is the beginning or the end
whether we are leaving a world or coming into another.

we're gonna hope to use our last breath for something memorable,
something that won't make us not get a good death's sleep,
keeping us awake in a homemade YouTube video.
we're gonna wish that someone finds all of our passwords
and breaks into our emails and social media accounts to realize that
we were geniuses, or something like that and we're gonna look forward
to not being successful and
not seeing anyone cry over something that we said while we were drunk or, worse..

there's nothing more annoying than a come-back to an argument
that comes too late,
the one great idea that could shut down anyone if it would appear in the middle of a fight,
and not afterwards. always afterwards.
when the quarrel initiators are already tucked up in bed, covered in wet dreams and solitude.
nothing for you to do. no hour is decent enough for you to call them in the middle of the night,
shouting your retort, then hanging up the phone and laughing like a crazy person.
that's how after-death must feel like.
a smart answer that comes too late and that no one gets to hear.

our bodies start dying from the day we are born,
little by little,
small chunks of tissue getting rid of our existence,
making us less appealing, less ripe.
our bodies become dumber and dumber every day and start
throwing emotional **** everywhere, hoping to make others mad,
and not care as much about us, near the end.
in a way, it's a form of protection.

we're gonna live through other people's deaths,
we're gonna be "survivors" and "carriers of their memory"
we're gonna try and appear strong for their closest ones,
even though we will forever be broken on the inside after they
become cool, underground.

as we grow older, we believe that death is more about us than the one leaving.
It's possible that we didn't even get to meet him personally,
but he "left a great impression on us", from his real friends' stories.
it's possible that we randomly cross paths with a funeral cortege of some unlucky stranger
and we would still believe that it's about us.
every time we stumble upon it from an observer's point of view, we cannot stop
thinking that it could have been us in that box,
forceless, incapable of protesting against the tie
or the flowers that we are/were so allergic to.
we get lost in our mind, near the coffin and our eyes start to glow
and lose liquid.
every time someone dies, it's always about us. at least, for a couple of seconds or days.

when we die, or are about to die, we find out that death is not at all about us.
it's about those that are left behind, the above mentioned "survivors".
we begin to worry about them,
to fear that there's no fresh milk in the fridge, no gas in the car tank,
that no one took out the garbage, nor fed the cat,
we are about to leave life under the impression that we forgot the fire on.
every time we die, it's never about us. at least, up until the last seconds.

there's no chance in hell that heaven's gonna accept this kind of language!
maybe the subtitle won't work for this part and I'll get off the hook.
I was thinking that one of the greatest penalties
God could give to a feeble-minded person like me
would be the possibility to choose between the infernal region and paradise.
I would end up in a very familiar situation, experiencing the purgatory of my afterlife,
in the same way I did in my entire earthly existence, not being able to pick a side,
make a decision, take a left or a right.. without overthinking it too much.

we're gonna die crying.
we're gonna die hoping that we closed the door.
we're gonna die tasting coffee.

we're gonna die when we least expect it.
we're gonna die in 3, 2..

we're gonna die trying to live.


[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CVemwwIDC7c]
Molly Coates Apr 2013
WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

**** it’s only 2.
Well, now that I’m up,
Lemme watch that slide show
That has an automatic timer for switching slides
Because I’ll be ****** if I ever want to see those things again
And so I just. Can’t. Hit. Next.

Lemme curl up in my bed under the blankets I stole from my basement.
Let me take a few deep breaths because I know for the next lifetime I’ll be running,
And Alice macartney knows you don’t get to breathe this deep on a run.
And If you have to ****, it better take a second because anybody can see you
And I know it too because, hell, I’ve been running my whole life until now
And it’s time I had a break.

Well, I’m already up
And it’s always sometimes helpful maybe
When I reread the script in my brain that begins with
“I’ve been physically abused for most of my life”
and ends with “I don’t know, but yeah.”

Three feet from the ceiling under two blankets
And the crushing ticking of two clocks that are never the right time
I lay down in a desperate attempt to be able to say tomorrow “yeah I got some sleep”
without feeling like a ***** liar.
And when I do lie, I’m gonna lift my mug of caffeine with a splash of dirt and milk to my lips
As if by blocking my mouth I erase the falseness of my words.

And after I reread my script and reread my script
And watch the slideshow titled “what the hell happened to your ribs?”
With an italicized subtitle “don’t tell anybody, okay?”
I scratch at the TO DO list of favors and assignments
And required events and obligations
That seem to crowd over the curvy crayola cursive that reads
“Please sleep. Please eat.”

And then I walk out of my room and down the long long hall
As quietly as I possibly can
So that I can listen to keyboards click, or floorboards creak, or pencils scratch
So that maybe I can count how many others are up with me
In the Twilight Zone.

And maybe by the time the grandaddy clock downstairs chimes one two three
I’ll have washed my face enough times and brushed my teeth enough times
And read my script enough times
To have a pounding headache just heavy enough to shove down my eyelids.

WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

****, It’s only 4.
Luckily I have a new slideshow to watch
And this one is called “the Fourth time my brother died”
With subtitle “flowers in my chain lock links”
And a dedication to Oom, my cow stuffed animal that has a bit of blood on him
From that one time I don’t remember.

I walk back down to the bathroom
And wash my face for the upteenth time.
Surely by now my skin is chemically burnt because
If I’m not going to wear make up, then I better be perfect!

A palmfull of water might irrigate my dust-bowl throat.
I must have been screaming in my dreams.

I slither back under the ceiling and the blankets
And I hold my fists against my eyeballs
As if a ravaging beast is trying to burst out.
I try to breathe silently so that I can pretend I don’t exist
That I’m not alive.
Because my heartbeat sounds disgusting
And my lungs were never that good.

One Two Three Four Five
And I’m ****** because I’ve been counting
From 72 to 248 for an hour now
And I know there is only one hour and fifty minutes
Until I have to
WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP
Again.
robin Mar 2013
that should be the name of a song
or a poem
or a memoir of a man who remembers nothing but
danger that passed him by,
ruffling his hair as it passed,
ignoring his pleas:
stay please stay please stay
i just want to mean something,
he would say
(that could be the subtitle
or the blurb,
something to draw the reader in; if floating bodies aren’t enough)
i just want to mean something,
and near-death experiences are the flavor of the day.
i’m not brave enough to do it myself,
i’m not a hero
or a villain,
just a lonely boy, undefined individual,
and your 350 teeth can help me mean
so much more,
350 individual teeth that float above my head,
falling out one by one as you bloat with seawater
(and here the first chapter would end,
here we would break for intermission,
audience smiling over martinis.
only 32 teeth, did some fall out?
too many maraschino cherries will do that to you.
too much sugar on the rim of that glass)
dead sharks in the current and none glance twice
i keep yelling but they just
deflect my bubbles,
and the surface swallows them like the heartless ***** she is
i keep yelling but they just move farther
i keep yelling but stay please stay please stay
i just want to mean something.
i just want some blood on my hands
is that so much to ask?
i just want some of my blood in the water,
to be a survivor
or a victim
(whichever gets more press coverage;
who cares about a memoir that nobody reads?
who cares about a memoir where nobody gets hurt?)
i just want shark teeth in my heart,
he would say,
i don’t want to make a mark on the world,
i want the world to make a mark on me.
that should be the name of a song
or a poem
or the eulogy of a boring man.
Miss Clofullia Jul 2016
We’re making movies that no one will see,
about things that mean the world to us,
at a certain moment in time and space,
but that mean less than a rat’s *** to anyone outside our bodies.

We never regret the echo in the large hall,
nor the words that OUR scarlett and OUR rhett say to each other
during the 126 minutes long director’s cut –
their tears are ours,
their love,
despair and
hunger for life
will be included in next month’s newsletter.

We’re making movies about those parts of our lives
that weren’t played out so well.
It’s our way of saying “sorry” or “thank you”.

We’re making movies that some don’t even call “movies” –
intimate quantum leaps, inner fights between our bodies and minds.
It hurts us, yeah. We’re not (all) made of stone.
We, sometimes, get frustrated and don’t even know exactly why.

We wake up in the middle of the night,
running the entire dialogue list in our head,
sleepwalking through the entire movie,
screaming at our non-suspecting sleeping significant other to be quiet and to get out of the frame,
“cause we’re ******* making a ******* movie here and every ******* second matters”.

We’re making (silent) movies because
we’re tired of all this noise,
because
that’s the only way we can have some “Aaaaaction” in our lives
and some frames to be proud of.

We’re not making movies to prove that the world is wrong
nor that we possess the ultimate truth.
No.
We’re not making movies to prove that the world is beautiful
and that we know nothing and that that nothingness should tickle your funny filmic bone.
No.

We’re making movies that make the entire world think that there’s something wrong with us,
that we can’t relate to our surroundings in a healthy and normal way.

We’re making movies so WE can experience, in the most familiar way,
the new wave long shot convention that YOU all hate
and diss in the digital environment,
as if your lives were made out of fast cut blockbuster shots
and not lonely, long walks through a dull park. Good for you, Max!

We’re making movies because
we don’t wanna have to explain ourselves,
like I’m doing right now.

Reality sometimes needs its own subtitle and.. ****! You know what?
The truth is that we’re not making movies.  
We’re making moves.
Robert Guerrero Apr 2013
She simply stated the following
"I'm sorry if this causes pain to anyone.
I'm sorry for every tear you will shed,
But the one thing I can't be sorry for
Is taking my pain away
Even if the price was my life."

This is what the world has come to be
Girls getting criticized in school
For the number of guys she entrusted her heart to
The rumors of her being a girl who sold herself
Yet all she wanted was to be loved
Her father left her at age 6
Her mother abused her day in and day out
She had bruises she tried hiding with every form of blush, eyeliner, and lipstick
She cried tears of velvet red color just to sleep
She fell victim to Loves dangerous game several times
And nobody cared once to listen to her story

He simply wrote the following
"I freaking hate all of you.
I hope you join me in the pits of eternal flames
The very ones you condemned me to
Just for being...Me.
None of you can understand my reasons for this.
One simply being
The spine chilling, dead empty silence of a million cries for help
That everyone refused to listen too."

This kid was 17 years old
He had a child on the way
But he didn't even know
He spent every night
Trying to find Misses Right
In the silken *** stained sheets
Of his King sized bed
He was a straight A student
With several colleges looking at him
But that was what was seen
From the orbiting satellite's of his peers
Deep down to the belly of the beast
Was a child, no older than 3
Trying to wake his mother and father
Killed by a homicidal maniac in a tire screeching drive-by
And he faced that memory every time he closed his eyes
He watched as the pain got worse
He watched in his blood riddled dreams
As his parents took their last breath
As their last thought flashed in subtitle text
"Please let him be safe"

They weren't victims to the sin called ******
They were victims to a society
Based on destroying people
And eroding the walls they built for their happiness
We hear their screams
But do we ever care to listen
What if that was your little sister
Or your brother calling for help
Calling out to be saved from the currents of the Misery Ocean
Calling out from the cold still darkness of the basement
To keep that hair trigger 45 from unloading the single bullet they put in the chamber
Or keep the chair they placed under their feet
To get the height they needed to reach the noose under their feet
And during their whole funeral
You're going to beat yourself up
Asking yourself "Where was I?"
"How come I didn't hear their cries?"
Then when the pain becomes to unbearable
From not understanding how your god
Could be so cruel and take their life
When they meant the world to you
Could take their life away so quick

They apparently meant nothing to anybody
Because I'm the only one at their funeral
Their both being buried today
In this old decomposing cemetery
I'm the only one bothering to shed a tear
When I have no tears to shed
The reason for the suicide note
Is self-evident and right before your eye
I have no idea where this came from
Shrinking Violet Apr 2015
I want you in a gasping sort of way.
tread Jun 2013
Instability.

Keyword: instability.

Mid-May and the room has a blue cold, runny nose, condensation clasping the window like a quiet leech. Through the narrow chinks of my cavern, I can glimpse a computer surrounded by world in peripheral; fish eye vision like religious fervor, I realize life has made a lasting impression on whatever I am.

whatever I am.

Dream fades to life, life fades to dream, some alien language crash landed on Earth and now we all speak English (except, you know, the ten thousand other dialects all branched from the Indo-European earth worm). People like to say that everything changes. Nothing stays the same. Does the fact of change never change? Does that not make constants a possibility, even if only within the Many World Interpretation of Quantum Physics (capitalized! it's a name and 'Quantum Physics' likes playing the smiling subtitle ( :) ) ) now I wasn't in Copenhagen the day a jury of physicists decided on Reality; but I was in Reality (capital R) so I'm sure that counts for something.

They say they don't know who 'they' are; as if a brief allusion to a greater network somehow invalidates the point (but 'they' is the 'you' you decide to ignore; the 'you' composite of influences 'you' simply grew around; 'they' is the part of yourself 'you' keep tucked away comfortably like a newborn child that doesn't know any better).
Barton D Smock Jul 2012
he’s got this look like he doesn’t know how much he’s into them for and the kicker is he’s alone. I’d subtitle him as nervous but it wouldn’t be ample. we’re brothers, 4 years between our bleaker anxieties. he talks with his arms and I see my father at age 32 and my father sees me and winks. brother he knocks the table wood that separates us with both knuckles and tells me he’s gonna need luck in both of these and he shows his open palms. he begins to gag and I **** but he shows me again his palms. I lean back in my chair and pretend I am in a very small space and pretend I am cigarette smoke. I see the oval in his throat and then an egg and then the egg broken on the table. my brother he loses his cool and bites his palms and futilely tries to set the table afire with matches, some light some don’t, no matter. he tells me he usually catches the egg and telling me calms him. still, it’s some trick and I say it. not a trick, he says, but magic. he drowses right there in front of me and my subtitle is ‘****’ because I am scared. we go inside to the dog we’re sitting for and I retire to the guestroom where I check the eggs in my bag to make sure they’ve not broken. I go into the bathroom with one of them and say down the hatch. I spend the night on a hard bed and care for my stomach. my stomach and not the egg.
Madeysin May 2015
Breathing between half naked gasps of torn away clothing. Relief as your lips mend mine. Guitar stringed lullaby, it's not reality. But it's real enough, for my hand to brush. Up against, between your thighs. To kiss all the mysterious places that you hide...it's the way your skin feels against these fresh sheets. That make you stay...
Subtitle: Unexpected visitors

Entanglement states that two particles that have become linked in a special way can be separated to any distance-even opposite ends of the universe-and a change in one particle will be immediately reflected in the other. (M. Ireland)

Seems when my lids are shut tight
that's when my mind's eye cracks open
Clarity within the fog.....
I see a sweet little cottage
     cozy and quaint
just like a stage set for
secrets.
My approach reveals an open door
     open mind
          open heart.
There's snow blanketing the ground....
at least one representation of the
real world.
I step through the door to find
a most unexpected surprise.....
     the butterflies in my stomach emerge from dormancy
     our lips electrified
     magnetic.
This time we both try to fight it
Try* being the key word.
Off stage
     off set
           off site
I know another really important person is there.
I want to see him more
but I can't pull myself away.
He is a memory.
He has yet to visit.
He makes me feel safe
but the butterflies go back to sleep when I step away from
you.
Possibility of anything inherent in dreams......
Cast into the glass
Sharpened tight
Make me torn
Brought back from Heaven
And what makes this good
Repetition Repetition Repetition
Spell-check
Marker scents and elephants
Porridge and the crumbs of Lucifer
Along with types of archetypes of subtitle psyches
Lucifer proud, go away oh you sinners and saints
Too many tools of thoroughly-bred rules
Glass
Ellie D Jan 2016
contemplations of an angsty agnostic
otherwise known as the subtitle to my lengthy biopic
or the fumbling intellectual journey
the endless search to find
the divine reality behind,
to trace, pinpoint exactly what lies
at the center of the cosmos
at the crucified heart of all humankind
some days i feel there is no God
no chance of a higher power
i'm resigned to spewing cliched aphorisms as nihilistic as Schopenhauer
fragmented theories and meditations on life
consuming my thoughts and flooding my mind
ideas tessellate and twist as i'm crumbling, stumbling to try and make sense of all this
i find
the existential condition that burdens the shoulders of the wonder filled kids
from the blinkered blues of the beats
to the hopeful hedonism of the hippies
and the time tick ticks
regardless of the passing ecstasy of our dream-filled kicks
i feel there must be something more than this.
absurdity has the tendency to consume the very core of me
ultimately, does that not make me more free?
like Sisyphus, i stagnate
repetitive routines threaten to enchain me
but i believe i know the path i'm on
and i have to know it will save me
we live in times
of overwhelming, reeling uncertainty
is it true that one day the gleaming, spinning light will find me?
Maria Etre Dec 2017
There are scenes
I'd like to rewind
some delete
others re-shoot
ones to work on
in post production
shots to subtitle
some record  
and others
replace
to finally watch
it like a movie
Barton D Smock Feb 2014
to overcorrect
the subtitle
of touch

give him
a moment-

then
just as he
whether he’s
a him
or a her

lifts
the temporary
tattoo
of light

say

you’d stay
but your pain
needs you.

if you can, for me.

you’ve so much
to miss
doing.
It's a film a steamy English romance,
hero and heroine in black and white
(the steam of ancient train's smoke),
give each other a sly furtive glance
no prospect of rapid ***** or poke;
he removing from her eye a speck,
they part the gent risks a little peck
***? Not in this Empire, oh no siree
Viewer imagine but you may not see.

In a French flick au contraire oui oui
Oh ** ** monochrome mais tres blue
A subtitle or two then "how do you do?"
Hairy hunk grabs at the buxom *****
Tips her over a bed or maybe a bench
Bare-chest nuzzles the actress's *******
****** achieved as their gasping attests
Post-coitus Gauloisy kisses get shared,
Anglo-Gallic brief encounters compared.
Subtitle: Actions speak louder than words*

Love     Lust     Lies

Skin
            Bone
                          Eyes

Give ­    Need     Take

Fail
              Hope
                            Fake

H­ide     Fall      Keep

Rove
             ****
                          Reap

Less     More     None

Gone
             Dead
                           Done
Shadows on the wall,
what was short was tall.
And then darkest night falls.
Nothing would stop the deformed dolls.

Pure evil engaging in blood writings.
So cold and bold that it causes the bats to be frightened.
Dogs in closed cages are howling.
Fear leaves humans embracing.

Then, it came, the noise pause
to reveal horror's sentence was a clause.
The knife instead of a flash light was all i could toss.

A pat on my shoulder
and i turned around.
Drooping saliva,
sick eyes,
***** clothes
and abnormal physique.
I prepared to scream
then i woke on my laptop's keyboard
only to see the movie subtitle that says:
"Curtains Closed"
Subtitle: concert cherry popped



His eyes, full of wonder
glued to the stage
waiting for the band to assume the position
sun not yet set
the thump thump thumping
begins.
His hands raise up
he joins the crowd
still melting in to the beat
as the sun beats too.
Intermission intrigues and builds suspense
he doesn't know the process yet.
The sun slips behind the flagpole
then the jumbo-tron
racing the light show (all purples and greens).
The crowd roars to life at the first
strum and drum.
He jumps to his seat
already wearing the overpriced t-shirt he bought
lips moving, reciting the words he has
memorized from setting the CD to repeat
head bobbing
keeping a perfect beat.
When the sun finally sleeps
he gets the full effect:
light show, big drums, guitar solo, stage smoke-
No encore (musically speaking)
but a visual symphony
as the fireworks make smiley faces in the full moon sky.
Not a bad first concert experience for a 9 y/o boy (and his 7 y/o sister)....free tickets for Imagine Dragons....outside....with hip-hop band Atmosphere (hometown heroes) opening.  I couldn't take my eyes off of him despite the giant stage in front of us.

— The End —