Poems, Stories, And Unorganized Messes

My Head Hurts...

It was a pale albino, rounded and delicate like an egg. Thin, gruesome cracks painted their path on the ancient, rock-like canvas. A whole history book was written on its face. A whole other dimension intertwined with those hollow eyes lurking with shadows. They looked left, they looked right, up and down, all the way into your evil and corrupted soul. A silvery blade shined elusively in the dim light shed by a nearby candle. It pierced the human skull, emerging all the way to the other side of the jaw, with its rotten, decaying teeth...

The desk that dared to hold these strange decorations was old, and used, but standing strong. The dark grains were prominent in the candle light. Scars on the desk were carved in deeply, looking similar to droplets running down a window on a sullen day. The poet bustled about, ignoring the horrific showing of a sword violently stabbing the very real, very human skull.

After all, they're just decoration.