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It was your job. The red dress, black shoes and the beautiful make-up. The silken scarf and the fine perfume.
The mirror showed a great beauty, you however, know better.
It is the same as usual.
The party is full of drunken guests and expensive food, you weave through the crowd making small talk and fake smiles. Silently you slip through an open door.
A darkened corridor greets you, you know where to go and sneak through into the third office on the right.
Inside there is a desk, it has a drawer with a false bottom. You remove it, inside are files with the key to the identity of the man's killer.
You take the files and leave nothing behind.
While leaving through the corridor, a guard spots you. You sigh and think that you had hoped to leave without murdering anybody. You turn with a silver knife and quickly slit the man's throat.
Later you wash the blood off the knife, it is clean but you cannot stop seeing the blood on the knife.
The mirror shows a beautiful young woman with …
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Poem of the Week


Soft goes silken sheets, Rustling as they cover up, The hard, unyielding truth. Soft is the pillows, Beckoning for rest. Easy is the way to deception. Water rushes over the silver knife, Washing free the blood, And the water runs red. Snick goes the silver knife, As it returns to its home, Waits for its next victim. Truth, Honor, Honesty, And the scattered pieces of your soul. True is the flash of metal, Deception, The hiding after.


'Freedom,' Said the Holy Book, 'Is a poor man's dream. It is nothing but an illusion. You would do well to ignore the fanciful imaginings and return to Earth and help your friends and family.'

He was a poor man, and this was his dream.

'Work hard, give freely,' Said the Holy Book, 'And you shall receive.'

He had nothing to give, he worked hard already.

'Aspire to be great,' Said the Holy Book, 'Work to achieve it and you will be great.'

He only wanted to be free.

'Suicide is a dishonorable way to leave,' Said the Holy Book, 'It implies selfishness and unwillingness to share with others.'

It wasn't going to be so bad.

He picked up the knife, gleaming sharp and made the first cut.

Blood flowed out like water breaking through a dam.

Again and again he sliced.

Again and again the sharp edge cut through skin flesh and bone like paper.

The knife made a clattering sound on the floor.

He says, "I am Free."

Poem of the Week

The Land of the Free, And a chained slave sighs. To be as free a bird, To glide on the wind, And free of these heavy burdens, Is a dream every man pursues. Time only passes for the man, That is bound by Life. Of the Stars and Stripes, That claim to be free. Only, Their people are as iron clad a slave. Truly freedom is nothing more than a passing fantasy, Man can only be so far apart from Law.  Freedom is a dream every man pursues, And a dream it is in the end. For freedom is never truly there, For the man bound by Life, Freedom is only found, After.


You toss and turn in your sleep. The sheets wrinkle as you mess the neat lines of your bed. You are dreaming. Dreaming evil dreams.

The voices whisper. Whisper of how you could have your revenge, they call it vengeance, but you are wary of them and ignore them.

But you cannot ignore them in your sleep. They show you the future if you listen, of you finally giving Them their dues. You are seemingly happy and you agree.

They tell you of things you don't want to remember, plans of things that will put into action if you just listen.

And giving up, just to make them stop, you agree. You carry out every step, every item and you put their plans into action.

In the morning, you hear of how They died in the night. The voices are happy with you and will gladly go away if you just do this one little thing.

You have already done much worse, you are a murderer, they can't make you do worse.

You agree.

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Poem of the Week

Your hate consumes you, Every waking moment, It whispers in your mind, Body, Soul. On how They must pay. You agree wholeheartedly. It whispers plans, Plans to bring about their humiliation, Pain, Sorrow, End. Every sleeping moment, In your dreams, Dreaming of ways to put Them to rest. Forever consumed with Vengeance. You yearn to put it to rest, An eye for an eye, After all. What you don't know, Is that They already have Vengeance on you.

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Passage of Time

A baby girl is born. Her name is Christina. It's the eleventh of August, two o'clock in the afternoon.

Five years later and she is five. It's her birthday, children from her class laugh and play in the sun. Christina blows out the candles on her cake, she wishes for a new toy.

Ten years later and Christina is fifteen. It's her birthday again and she is at a club. It's dark and people are laughing, dancing. Christina smiles and joins in. She is happy.

Fifteen years later and she is thirty. It's her wedding day, she walks down the aisle with her elbow hooked around her father's arm. She looks at her husband to be with a loving smile and says "I do." Everyone cheers and they kiss.

Twenty years later and she is fifty. She smiles at her son as he walks up the steps to get his diploma. Afterwards she says to her son, "I'm proud of you."

Twenty five years later and Christina is seventy five, she carries her grand-daughter onto her lap and s…