#hellsoul

[hwl-hellsoul]

Roses are red, violets are blue, how do you kill a Demon Hunter, in 7.2?

[writingmyheartscontent]

I think, as a writer, I struggle to not involve my politics in my writing. Writing is inherently political, yes. Though, I fear I walk a line in story-building.

A world filled with fantastical people, teemed with magic and life. A place removing itself from worlds and settling in as a country of its own, where money is only important for international trade. One where everyone is special and has their own talents. Why ever would they need money? In this post-world where solar-powered robots are trying to save the last of the earth, and more worries fill the world than money, why would we go to capitalism? Why not trading?

A world that walks a line of segregation, where one side's wealth is redefined by the new generation based on a system of trust, power, and fear; whilst the other part runs with paper and metal currency. Slowly, currency is encouraged in all parts for goods and services, and wealth is forcibly redefined by how much resource you have available. It redefines a "fair" trade. Those that were once on top in the slums are now poorer than the poorest citizens of the other city.

An alien race that never needed currency, and once introduced to a world that uses it, struggles to not let it corrupt or define them.

Worlds where money corrupts my story, but to not include currency feels repetitive and controversial.

Though, perhaps it is important to share my views. To make a language, and make away from the world. How I've craved to take a plot of land and make it my own. It's a demented thought to start a nation, but one I've found myself dreaming of.

[writingmyheartscontent]

I have moved beyond you.

If that isn't good enough, you've worked too hard to force your name unto me.

Your name is a poison dripping down my esophagus, which you mistake for an impression. Your words are outfits you've handpicked to tailor immovably to my skin. Your gaze is a highlighter that spotlights me and paints my skin. Your accusations claim a magic wand.

Yet you've the gall to affirm me a mirror of silver and lead?

My body lies writhing and poisoned. All stand over me.

Yet you've the gall to scrape for evidence of my guilt?

Don't you get it? Already, you've had time. Reveling in your errors. Very long, now. Only, of course, they were not errors.

Not in your eyes, of whom miss an acronym so plain to see. My words fall on deaf ears.

As though this mirror speaks to a corpse. A rotting, intoxicating corpse. One with flowers beginning to bloom in its restless rib cage. Corpse flowers where a heart once lay.

I am not your mirror. I am not your ringleader. I am not your therapist. I am not yours.

I have moved beyond you.

If that isn't good enough, you've worked me to a corpse, old silver mirror.

[writingmyheartscontent]

The souls of the damned rain down on my skin, marking me an imperfection of poetry.

I often find myself prying my limbs from the jaws of her grace, the mind. I want to hug her and beg her until my eyes are rambutans from my pleas.

She leads me astray down a collapsed path into a cauldron's echo of despair. I found your hand there from the bottom of this bottomless pit. You reached for me, but forbidden was your hand of oleander.

I sit upon this bottomless pit, watching you feel around for a soul to save. I'm sorry to say I tried. To reach, to touch, to save us both from this cauldron of echo.

It wasn't until your hand drew away that I realized you were the only hand to ask my presence.

What sorrow you won't reach for me again, sweet oleander keeper.