hiddentohru

Lydia was never sure exactly how it had begun. She knew that in the valley, life was slow. The townspeople, including her and her family, spent most of their time tending their small homesteads and visiting the town square for gossip and social events. Some days she felt as if the world was holding its breath for fear of disturbing the quiet, but she didn't mind that so much. Life was good, even if it was slow, and though part of her craved excitement, the more sensible part of her always thanked God that she was safe and happy, even if it sometimes meant she was a bit bored.   It happened so quickly, she could never separate it all in

The princess is lost. Echoing dreams surround her, but she cannot find the true form. She has been raised a pampered child, a lady of great fashion and beauty and wit and culture and much less sense than a position of such power should have instilled. She has had privileges, oh yes, so many things that she had taken for granted, and yet she is still trapped here. Lost. She wonders what the purpose was, of all the things she had for the asking, of all the people who would jump at her call. Did she have friends, she wonders, or were they simply servants of another kind, responding to her like flowers to the sun only because it was their duty,

She stumbled, then, her feet numb and unfeeling on the cold ground. The blood was fresh on her dress still, but all she knew was pain, and all she felt was to get away, or she would die. The monsters had taken her, after killing her family, her husband and children, her brothers and sisters and father. They had spared a few other women, for… For the pain. She felt it, stabbing through her lower body, but she used the red hotness as drive. It would snow soon, she knew, and she must get away. Away from the monsters, away from the pain and the weeping women and the blood stained ground. Let the pain stab at her from below, her mind was all

Today is a cold day, Living under my skin I feel pins and needles and pain The nerves are whistling and whirling Softly, as the sun falls behind the trees Painted golden amber as they die And stories, like seasons, Always have a beginning and ending But it's never really clear When they have begun.

So a long time ago, when I first started singing, I was incapable of taking compliments. Oh, I had the general idea that I liked compliments, but I would often baldly state to people that I was horrible, or that performance was regrettable, or some other thing that basically smacked them in the face and said "you are WRONG for liking it!" The most memorable time I did this was when I participated in a talent show my freshman year of college, where I sang (a cappella) a song I had written. And I thought I had done badly. I felt so horrible about it that when a girl I vaguely knew tried to compliment me, I yelled at her. She never spoke to me a

I am many. I have been, I will be, I exist as many. There is no One Chelsea. There is not one person inside me. There is many. I am many. The Silver Angel, a vigilante hero of day and night. With wings of white, a flashing sword that cleaves the weapons of her enemies, and brilliant armor that conceals her many battle scars. A heroine in worlds of heroes, making her way as a night club singer in the evening, and in dark night and bright dawn a hero to all who are helpless. Consort of the powerful, protector of the weak, and fulfillment of law and good in chaotic fashion. The Chaos Pawn, unwilling seed of destruction, flung between worlds by

I am the spider, I am the fly. I am Arachne, I am Athena, I am the pale goddess of night. I am the sister daughter lover singer dancer of your dreams. I am beauty, I am filth, I am the creeping crawling sense of wrong coming up behind you in the middle of the night. I am slowness, I am utmost, I will crash into you and own you fully. I am possession, I am the beginning of it all, I am the horror that wakes you in the night and then cradles you once more to sleep, leaving sticky kisses on your chest. I am owner, I am slave, I am wrestling your fears to the ground and devouring them slowly. I am the one who creeps, who crawls, who slithers out

Calamity is riding Riding, through the snow I feel soft feathers Kisses of ice Brushing against my lips My cheeks On my eyelashes clustered And there I see Through swirling clouds Little bright lights Tiny cottages Molten gold upon the silver land Calamity is riding This night, I can see Dark ravines Deathly heights And hungry beasts Calamity is riding These lonely mountain passes And I am shivering Against the soft feathery kisses Of a thousand motes of ice.

Through the window Your pretty face. I press my hands against the glass And gaze with longing. Your skirt swishes Softly, sweetly In the summer breeze. A cloud passes over And momentarily That copper highlight Vanishes with the sun. You smile at the world And wave at a passing car So lovely and innocent In the light of day. Slowly, I draw back Catch my breath as I watch you go Further out into the world. You don't know me And I don't know you. But sometimes, I see you Smiling through life Enjoying the deep blue sky As you pass my window.

Bright, bright, The riverbanks of night, Alone and searching, Searching, She finds inside The beauty terrible The infant child The screaming martyr And mother bleeding Bleeding, For the sake of that That precipice inside She claws up, up There are many roles Like second skins, she finds And peeling, peeling She steps away Away from the beauty terrible The screaming child The infant mother The bleeding martyr Away, away She steps and finds The bright, bright, Lonely, lovely night.