Shut Up
We're the renegades of this atomic age
There is no doubt that a pleasant 'Go to hell' is what I want to begin my introduction with. I won't describe just how deranged I really am, I won't even give you any details on my miserable existence, just my name.
I'm Emma Joan Nicks.
The sister of Satan.
The lover of Christ.
The daughter of Rock.
The friend of Death.
The fiend of Idiocy.
If it's too much information to retain, just remember that I'm Emma.
I'm a leaf, torn between two winds, one hot and one cold, each trying to sweep me in a different direction.
I'm never compliant. I let myself go in a direction, then fight until I can't breathe properly to go in another.
That hot wind is very violent, but it loves me so much it would go against the sun and the moon both to make my existence as peaceful as possible. It carries words that stick to the tiny veins on my surface, words that the tree from which I fell tries to scrub off my skin, but always fails. It has the darkest waves of dust one would ever see and this rhythmic whistling that entices more leaves from the nude and trembling tree.
The cold wind is calm, calmer than seas before a storm, but it has these gusts, sometimes, that pain me more than the hot wind's permanent tugs. It loves me so much it releases me from its calm waves so I can fly off to protection. It never ceases its pleas, for me to return, for me to go away, for me to remain, but they're soft-hearted so I want them daily, as a junkie would want his junk. It has these particles of dust that seem to contain the millions of problems that hummanity might've said to nobody in particular and this violent whistling that seems to draw me in as light draws a moth close to its death.
Now that the cold wind died down, the hot wind doesn't find pleasure in being as violent anymore, in pulling me in and then throwing me out. It's as absent as the deceased one...
And I know just how to end this thing( I don't really know what it is), a pleasant 'Don't read if you're dumb'...
I'm Emma Joan Nicks.
The sister of Satan.
The lover of Christ.
The daughter of Rock.
The friend of Death.
The fiend of Idiocy.
If it's too much information to retain, just remember that I'm Emma.
I'm a leaf, torn between two winds, one hot and one cold, each trying to sweep me in a different direction.
I'm never compliant. I let myself go in a direction, then fight until I can't breathe properly to go in another.
That hot wind is very violent, but it loves me so much it would go against the sun and the moon both to make my existence as peaceful as possible. It carries words that stick to the tiny veins on my surface, words that the tree from which I fell tries to scrub off my skin, but always fails. It has the darkest waves of dust one would ever see and this rhythmic whistling that entices more leaves from the nude and trembling tree.
The cold wind is calm, calmer than seas before a storm, but it has these gusts, sometimes, that pain me more than the hot wind's permanent tugs. It loves me so much it releases me from its calm waves so I can fly off to protection. It never ceases its pleas, for me to return, for me to go away, for me to remain, but they're soft-hearted so I want them daily, as a junkie would want his junk. It has these particles of dust that seem to contain the millions of problems that hummanity might've said to nobody in particular and this violent whistling that seems to draw me in as light draws a moth close to its death.
Now that the cold wind died down, the hot wind doesn't find pleasure in being as violent anymore, in pulling me in and then throwing me out. It's as absent as the deceased one...
And I know just how to end this thing( I don't really know what it is), a pleasant 'Don't read if you're dumb'...