should i continue???

ok im thinking bout posting a story but i need to know if it will be worth while

like if people will read

heres a few paragraphs:

“Dameon… Dameon?” Her voice was as delicate as the petals of a rose. I couldn’t exactly place where the voice was coming from. I glanced around at my surroundings. Pure bliss all around. Green grass, blue skies, a sprinkle of flowers here or there. I felt the warmth of the sun on my back and the dewy spring scent filled my nose. “Dameon?!” A whisper this time. It seemed close but there was a coldness to it that sent shivers down my spine. The kind of cold you feel in the pit of your stomach that slowly but surely eats away at you until you can’t help but scream. A wave of nausea passed over me as I looked over my shoulder. There stood a girl, maybe a teenager. She was ghastly pale but unusually beautiful. She has enormous green orbs for eyes and chestnut hair that fell slightly past her slumped shoulders. She had nothing on but I plain white summer dress. Her familiarity gave me goose bumps and my breathe just couldn’t seem to find my lungs.

I jolt up out of bed with cold sweat stinging my eyes and my cuts. The salty substance seeps into the newly formed damages. Damn, can’t even get away from it in my dreams… my entire body shudders from the memory engraved in my brain now. I move my unsteady hands across my torn comforter and pull it back revealing my bruised legs. I swing them around so my feet are comfortably imbedded in the thick, warm carpeting. I hang my head and close my eyes, I see her face…. Again. Every time I close my eyes I see her face and it’s been four months. I scratch at the annoying part in my hair that just won’t seem to stay where I want it. Unnaturally bleach blonde and black pieces fall into my empty eyes. Empty eyes…. Four months of empty eyes. I jump as the words to a Blink 182 song fill the room from my alarm clock.

“I’m sick of always hearing all the sad songs on the radio, all day it is there to remind an oversensitive guy that he’s lost and alone,” I hit the black plastic box, once, twice, three times before it finally silences the disheartening lyrics. Like I really needed that. Yes, I finally believe it, God hates me.

I bring my callused and cracked hands to my lap and pick at my chipping black nail polish. Picking away, allowing as my precious minutes melt into an hour, without realizing it the time just fades away. I look to my clock, although I felt like I had been there for the entire span of eternity, it had only been three minutes. How cruel can time be? I relinquish my efforts to slip into time and let it pass, instead I stand nearly hitting my head on the top, unused, bunk. I stagger to the hateful mirror and am welcomed by the harsh blow of reality. A big bruise covers the underside of my left eye and my lip has been busted open. I nurse my wounds and start to get ready for my day in hell. Grab the brush and brush my bangs over my injured eye. My chunky blonde highlights seem almost abstract against the raven black. I grab my black eye liner and throw as much on as possible in hopes it will assist my hair in hiding it. The mirror only seems to highlight my worst attributes. Too big of a nose, hair isn’t straight enough, my ears stick out too much…basically U-G-L-Y, ugly. I let my eyes slip shut out of fatigue and nearly crash into the floor. I suppose a few days without a calm night’s rest will do that to you.

Before I know it I’m standing on the corner waiting for the bus and slowly but surely falling asleep. I feel a tug on my book bad as I’m lurched backwards, then sideways and am soon greeted with the metal stop sign against my head as I cascade into it. I plunge to my knees cradling my face in my trembling hands. Without needing to look over my shoulder I already know a group of basketball players are the culprits. “Aw, did the little emo fag hit his head?” said one with an obnoxious baby voice. I can’t think too much about who it is because the few seconds I had without pain subsided as the throbbing flooded my entire head. I winced as one of them pulled me up by the back of my shirt. “Hey fag, bus is here.” Him and his buddies chuckled and snorted as I was pushed up the steep steps and into the fist seat nearly landing on a 6th grader. I look over at the small child next to me and scowl, before I could even say anything he crawled over me and jumped into the next seat shaking. I scoot over and look out the window as I hear music start playing in my head. One day I’ll save up for an mp3 player and I won’t have to listen to the songs in my mind anymore.