Hate Letter to The critic btw (not a real person tis is only a prompt)

Critic,
(notice how I did not add "Dear" in front of critic. That's because you are not dear, and do not deserve it in front of your name)

Who do you think you are?????
stumbling over all your words, like "this writing is annoying" or "this writing is boring, its lame, its stupid, its horrible, its gross." but you know what? your the one who is a sucky writer, you can keep my writing all you want, go ahead read it when your lonely. Because with that attitude I assume you have no friends and all your family never stops by to see you. You can go ahead and be miserable, and spread your unhappiness to everyone! but keep my writing. So on your next birthday when there is no one wishing you a happy birthday, go ahead and read my poem about birthdays and take it from me to actually imagine what a real birthday with people who care about you is like. All these writers, are under your pressure, your big foot in the door. Your just a jackass critic with nothing better to do than be an asshole. Because unlike all of us writers, we have a passion, we have a a calling. And sorry but, I really don't think being a jerk is a talent, a passion. But i guess it is a way for you to get attention. You know what? you critics, and I mean the ones who write in the newspapers, you aren't real writers. And I bet the only fucking reason you are so horrible to everyone,is because you are jealous that you cant write like us. So just keep my writing and read it til your head falls off rolls onto the ground, trips your legs, makes you fall into the street, and as your laying in the street choking on punctured lungs from getting run over your whole family walks on you, steps on you and squishes you. To bystanders, they might think your family doesn't know who you are. But in fact they do. in fact they remark about how ugly you still are, how you look better in the street all disgusting. And i say all this because I HATE YOU. I hate your crooked teeth, your runny nose, your yellow eyes, your balding head, your big bright green suit and your cheap alligator shoes. I HATE YOUR GUTS. you know what else you can keep critic? you can keep all the rest of those people, who are hardly people but a different breed of asshole, keep them who try and convince everyone that nothing is good enough and we are all failures. People tell me when i scream about how much i hate you, that hate is a strong word. But no. for you its not. Because i absolutely positively hate everything about you. i don't think anyone has eve loved you. You don't even have a face a mother could love. So go where you belong, into the gutters, in the rains, where the homeless and the lowest of the low go. But your even worse then them, so leave them, who are way better, alone and crawl around in the trash with the cockroaches. And I honestly hope you never ever die Just live on and endure all the pain of hate surfacing in a horizon called your mind. Because if you die, you obviously would never touch heaven, but not even hell would take the likes of you. I HATE YOU. tomorrow ill be at your house with my bat going to push you with the bat into the sewer, where we established you ll be spending the rest of your days. you wont even have imaginary friends. your own imagination wont grant you that! then I'm throwing the bat out o i never have to catch or think, your hate disease that follows you around. good bye. Catch you later shit head.

- Yours truly

the death of Sanity Prologue 2

Harold was bored in London. He walked down the street past, McCarthy's book store, the same as any day. The bricks still told the same story. Brick after brick of melancholy red. It breathed out the same grey notes of fog. There really was no story here, only the same stifling memories of familiarity. He passed Mrs. Smith's hat shop where his wife, Nell bought sunday bonnets for her Lucy and Anne. Even the hats matched the grey sorrow. London once thrived, but now anguish, death and sorrow plagued the city. It once stood tall and bright with the successful but just since a few months it has turned to ashes. On this morning the message boy from the London law enforcement, had called for him. He was working as an officer and now was on his way to investigate a crime scene he had needed to be seen, apparently it was pretty bloody, by the reactions made by his fellow officers. This may be one of his once yearly excitements. He had been directed by the page boy, although he had not needed to he knew the neighborhood very well, it was the wealthier part of town. Many rich families settled there for it's closeness to the fancy shops and quality and beauty of the houses there. When his family had went on carriage rides, through the park just a block away, they marveled at the homes. The girls would say which one was their favorite, or which to buy. This had always made his wife laugh and make him angry. They were to drunk in the bliss of childhood to realize that someday they would live in society and understand what adults must go through. You can't just say "i want to live there." and have the money to do it.  By the time he was on the street he began noticing larger amounts of people. He reached the house where the crime had been done. People and neighbors fringed out on the outsides of the gate. officers heavily kept watch on all sides. Harold pushed through the people, excusing himself, until h reached the gate. He revealed his badge and walked legs quivering at the feeling of mystery as he walked to the front steps. 

Prologue for my story the Death of Sanity

one man, alike all the others in london that day, in his dignity 

He begins his story when all odds are against him 

Fiance taken 

friendship betrayed 

loneliness takes hold 

from old past life brings familiar memories 

when time is time reused 

from these folds of story comes one lonely man and one woman questionable of her existence 

give their lives up 

to no longer feel the intensity, grief, pain, suffering, grudges and memories of every day life 

all is the same now in love men of insanity love her

without their choosing she comes

through portals and drownings deaths and dreams 

in the never ending cycle of life that leaves our minds unwillingly confused in the labyrinth she rules 

their blood leaves the white clean of life destroyed and in anguish 

one woman of beauty and imagination, she is the future the past the present 

one man of wealth and prestige, he is the innocent, the confused, and the martyr 

in the end you must lend us your ears so this will not happen again

can someone find a love that is nonexistent , or one that died years ago 

through rage, envy and lust in your mind we over throw 

to solve the story, the mystery of true love, is up to you. 

Good bye and Good luck

You left me no Time to regret
the mistakes I have made
you left your mind blank for me
the tears stay dry just rims around my eyes thinking of how
I can live
You went back to how it was, so far from the truth
so far removed from yesterday
my luck is gone and for you I go back
to what you changed me from
We never said goodbye the same as our hello
it was possible for me
to die
and come back to how I was before
Now I find it hard
to really rememeber
how we felt
Time wearing us away
we find it eases the pain
to forget

Monologue

I started ballet when I was Seven and my father left. people Think your a homosexual if your a boy and you dance. It's a stereotype of the people who have never once, done a piriot, releve, or Pleiet. Dancers are the muslims of a southern baptist church. For sure. one night I was doing a routine from the nutcracker at a half time for foot ball, when an older player leaves the dug out. I was doing the dance of the sugar plums and he walks right by the marshals, and coaches and parents, comes up to me- he was wearing a big gold ring, i can still see it. Walks close to my face and just as I bend for the leap, he trips me just as i jump so i fall into the girl ahead of me in the sugar plum fairy costume. That's the only time i have ever not landed the leap of the nut cracker. Fell in front of fifty thousand people. Then he smiles like he knows all of what is occurring in my head. He says something. Something I want to scream back at him. The other two boys in the ballet are gay. He screamed "faggot." right in my ear, in front of half of South Carolina. It was like my dignity being pulled from me.  There is one dance, you people don't see.  The last day of Lent, we go to the clearing in the forest that God brought us to. Jesus Dancers come. Well the ones who just have started point. They come and put on the point shoes. Without bandages and dance in the rain, until their feet bleed. Our Dancing Virginity lost, and bled into the sewer grates. Our sacrifice. Our Crucifixion. The Red water washes away God's Face from the pavement. I dont think you could believe.  dont think you could believe how beautiful it is. I started dancing when I was seven, but i never really knew it until my father left. But in truth, my father is up there. And I wash away the fright of him on the pavement with our dancer's blood. And i know my father. I will leave the slippers here. the one's that I bled into. right here. As if i had never danced. And when they leave,  you can pick it up, so as not to be called a faggot. It can be yours. Your weight of burden. It is the key to the gate of heaven. I leave it. 

Who's afraid of Virgina Woolf?

Dearest, Your crooked nose makes you look wise. When you look into her eye you can see what she would do to herself Going out like Hamlet's Ophelia hair spread loosely shoes gone rocks resting in her pockets I dont think two people could have been happier than we have been. Who's Afraid of Virgina Woolf? I am afraid of Virginia Woolf. Of her ghosts that keep her prisoner. I feel certain That Iam going mad again. V

The year I am Ageless

Again another year,                                                                                                                                      The wind whistles decadent with winter like an old man snoring.                                                            When the sun puts another day to rest,                                                                                                           I watched for the moment  right before the sun bids a due                                                                     I remember all of what happened one year, two years, one thousand years ago.                                   Until the first birthday when the wind whistled decadent like an ending.