My stitches are what keep me alive.
I'm a hybrid. A freak. Pieced together from different things.
To form me. Grotesque. Unwanted.
But I care not for other people's feelings towards me.
It had been a long day. My master and I had spent the whole day talking.
Going deep inside our thoughts on everything. Life, the universe.
I tilted my head towards him.
"Do you suppose. . . I don't need to be threaded together to survive?"
He sighed, and looked me in the eye.
"No. Everyone survives on a thread or threads of some kind. It just so happens yours are literal."
I nodded, understanding.
During our long talk that night, my neck had felt increasingly lopsided. I inspected it in the mirror. A loose thread.
"I can fix that. . ." murmured my master, peering over my shoulder into the mirror.
He is the reason I exist. I had no life before him.
He is the reason I am still alive. If it were not for him, I would be a pile of thread.
He's quite soothing. And handsome, of course. There's not a lot he doe
Meaningless trash, pouring out of my soul.
Mindless emotion, draining out of a hole.
This isn't creative. This bears no talent.
There is no hero, bravado and gallant.
Stop telling me lies. Stop saying, "You're great!"
I'm clearly meant for other things. This isn't my fate.
I'm not meant to be a writer, nor do I claim to be.
The most likely of fates, will be a killing spree.
I'm not afraid of murder. I've no fear for myself.
My only friends left are vampires and elphs.
If I committed murder, they'd be there by my side.
Shaking their heads in disgust. "We tried."
Poetry, void of emotion. Of valor. Of grace.
Please, sweet blade, take me out of this place.
Clichéd, you are, and that is a given.
A new emotional vehicle, has not been driven.
Same old, same old. It's crap every time.
I usually start faltering, start losing the rhyme.
It's what I'm reduced to. Childish poetry.
What's my excuse? Lack of creative chemistry?
Using words that don't rhyme. I'm pathetic, at most.
Remnants of talent,