Just Like You part 4I know what you’re wondering, how does a quiet depressed teenager with a nob for an older brother become a killer? Well I’m getting there. Perhaps I am rearing slightly off topic but this background is making me all nostalgic. What? You did not think killers could feel nostalgia? Well I can. But I have already told you I am just like you. I am not a psychopath or a sociopath the only thing slightly different about me is I am dyslexic. Something I only recently found out. Before a test confirmed I had a disability I was just called stupid.Throughout my childhood and even into my adulthood that is what everyone believed of me. But I am not stupid. I have killed fifteen people. And if anyone cared at all they would have noticed I was clever. That it was my disability not my intellect holding me back. Perhaps if they cared they would have already caught me. But I have already told you no one cares. Not about me or you or even that my victims are dead. No one even noticed
Just like you part 3I do not know when my desire to die began. All I know is that I did not have it when I was a child. I was too young to understand what it meant. Too naïve to appreciate its beauty and serenity, I was taught to be afraid of it. As I grew older I became more and more curious about it. Just like the word nice, death is a fairly elusive term. What lies beyond the great unknown has always captivated me and while some fear that unknown I welcome it. Life was never kind to me, but death is still full of opportunities. As an early adolescent that is what I believed death to be, a heaven and hell type concept. An afterlife of some form. An opportunity for a second, better life.And as I grew older my perception of death changed and so did my appearance. By the time I was thirteen I had already had my first growth spurt and already was desperate to die; anything to take away the pain of life. I no longer believed death to be a world beyond my reach, like a fantasy world from the
Just Like You part 2I was 14 years old when I donated my kidney to my older brother Phillip. When my parents had asked me I had said yes immediately without even wondering if his disease was genetic. See back then I was still a good boy and that’s what good boys do. They donate their kidneys to save their brothers. By this point I had already acquired a fascination with death, enough to fantasise about my own but not enough to wish it upon anyone else. Phillip, who was so like me in some ways, was my polar opposite when it came to views on death. He was desperate to live, I was desperate to die. He struggled every day to survive while I struggled with living. In that way the Kidney transplant was perfect, Phillip got his life back and there was a chance I could die from the operation.But that is where the perfections ended. For better or worse I did not die. Nor did Phillip, although he did come to resent me and my kidney – sorry his kidney. He was my big brother he was sup
Just Like You part 1I never got to choose the circumstances of my life. I chose them no more than I chose the DNA that created me. Somehow between two aspects I never got to pick I have ended up here. Thirty four years old with nothing but a list of the people I have killed and a desire to die myself. Do you blame me for what I have done? For all the people I have killed? When you factor in the circumstances I encountered and mix it with an unfortunate batch of DNA, one can only wonder – did I ever have a choice?My name is Watson O Riley and this is my story.My life started fairly averagely. Unlike so many of my kin I was not a born a killer. Life pushed me to become one. My childhood was nice. That one word can condense the entire content of my early years. Nice. A fairly elusive word; don’t you think? Like my childhood it has no substance, no content and yet we use it so frequently. No one really comments on how you can evade a question so easily with such a simple word.
The Smiling GameI’ll Smile for you if you Smile for meLets play a gameIts called Happinesswe can brush of the rain with a Smileand drink that champagne with a Smilepoison has never tasted so sweetand don’t you just love that queasy feelingI’ll Smile for you if you Smile for meAnd we can plaster our Smiles across townYour beautiful : SmileSNAPWe are both smiling in that photographIll hang it on my wallBut as the years collect the memories fadeand all I recall is the SmileI’ll Smile for you if you Smile for meWe are playing a game rememberDid your mouth twitch a moment?No cheating in this gameAnd once you begin you are playing for lifeIts called HappinessI’ll Smile for you if you Smile for meThey call me the memory collectorBut all I have collected is SmilesHanging on my wallLike words chiselled into stoneAm I happy you ask?Of course I’m happyCant you see my SmileIm playing the gameI’ll Smile for you if you Smile for meCome play wi
Molten MemoirsYou never feared ghosts would haunt youPhantoms appear only in mythsBut of times too distant to forgetAnd Memories built on satisfying guiltThere a phantom that existsEtched in truth and deep regretit sneaks and mocks you from behindYet when you turn it pounces from affrontAnd although years pass it does not ageLike a recurring scene in an unsettling dreamBeware - you are the huntAnd the beasts are easy to enrageWhen the ghosts come calling we are all childrenMolten memories leak from the headLava taunts snare at the heartVeins explored by phantom’s swordFear in place where blood once bledPride quavers. Defences departLike a shadow in the darknessYouth’s vices are loyal to their crownSummoning to sweet returnYou’ve been served what you deservedPride cannot drownFear cannot burnYou thought phantoms falseBut ghosts tell secrets only memories could knowSpreading lies incites no dread and truths that bind can also blindmemories fester cold and
Insidious pleasuresYou keep relaying the fact that you did not pressure me into anything. But you have said it so many times that I am beginning to feel that your words are only there to protect yourself from a lurking feeling that says otherwise."you don't have to do this" you reassured me, as you ran your hand across my thigh and caressed my breast. You insisted it was my decision, but you heavily implied what you wanted and heavily encouraged it as well. Not only with gentle whispers that brushed my skin with the same softness as your lips. But with your entire body every time you pulled me that little bit closer and I was amazed yet again by your ability to control me so fluently and how easily I was willing to bend my integrity.I cannot place how it started, but in hindsight, although I do not entirely regret what happened. I wish it never had. Insidious pleasures are the worst kind of satisfaction. I recoil from myself, embarrassed, as I think of your subtle touch. In that elusive mome
Even at deathWill they come to my funeral? I wonder.Will they lay flowers at my grave?Cry at my headstone and eulogise my life?Remembering me for being crass but brave.Will they scream laments?or will this poem be my only oneWill anyone care than I am no more.but lying limp and cold under the tepid sunWill the only proof that I once existedBe these words I left behindOf things I once though significantIn structured prose and stilted rhymes Will there even be anyone aliveTo remember the person I had beenBefore I left the world a phantomof old memories of what I'd done and seenBut you, dear, are vibrant even at deathAnd I envy you for it. You, like a static waveBecause now that you are gone who is left?And who will lay flowers at my grave.
Fighting for freedomBANG! BANG! BANG!The thudding on the door came suddenly but not without warning. We had been waiting for them ever since nightfall. Outside I could here their shouts of encouragement to "push harder" their thirst for blood evident from their voices alone."We will never be free if we keep on running, Thomas. Wherever we hide they will always find us." In spite of her wise words and matter of fact voice, she made no attempt to conceal the fear that was flickering in her misty grey eyes.Freedom. It's a funny word isn't it? I turned it over in my mouth a few times trying to understand what it tastes like. I wonder if it is something that can be experienced at all, or rather just a sense of longing whilst enduring captivity. To me, at least, freedom is a beacon of hope and perhaps a lack of more appropriate wording. Though, I prefer to consider it hope.BANG! BANG! BANG!"Thomas, we have no other option. It's time to fight.""No! Have we not already killed enough people?" My v
A DefinitionWords that mean the same as ‘gay’:Happy, bright, joyful.Queer and homosexual.Words that do not mean the same as ‘gay’:Weak, stupid, lame.Evil, abomination, shame.You got that?Okay.Because ‘gay’Is not an insult.
EvolutionEvolutionis a silent process of changingwe realise from the result.It Can't Be The Target.
I'm Going NoWhereI'm Going NoWhere, But My Way Is Certain.
AshesLost Your name.The fireextinguished.
NadirHis shotgun smilesays it all -smell of rabbits matingin the basementkeeps him up at nightand he likeshis neighbor's daughteras she stands on tip-toein the back yard,peering through his windowor drowning kittens in the river.He keeps a razorin his bedroom,siphons after-shave througha loaf of breadand calls it magic,remembering how his teacherfound him naked,shoved into a closetand how she putmarbles in his mouthto keep him from speaking.His mother only laughedand told him to washhis clothes outin the bathtuband not drip wateron her carpet.Don't leave a witnesshis best friend said.Pictures have earsand walls can feellike familywhen God has seen your secrets.
LostLost –Like a vagabond.Split – At a four-waystreet, past any signsthat I comprehend.If I had I had it my way,I would cruise on the highwayand never stop.
ExelixiΕξέλιξηείναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγήςπου αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
Team In our days the word "team" only refersto basketball and football teams.
pillow talkthere are thousandsof tongues i couldmemorize; new wordsfor love tucked betweenteeth often bitingtoo hard.my chapsticked lipscould learn to bow togrammar laws incountries i'llnever visit.i could master writingsymphonies in syntax,spend hours penningvolumes in languagesof longing and love,but i'll never find aphrase that fits youthe way your body fitto mine, back bent.i'll never find a namefor how our lips tuckedtogether, for my handsin your hair, for therapture in your eyes.
cloud watcherstwo brothersboth alike in physical apperancelooked at the exact same cloudone said "a boat"the other " a rabbit"and yet neither were wrong