A fixation created by the amusement that is casted from the small attention we have from movement and the strain of colors.
From fast to slow,
From blue to red.
The swift swipe of a hand preforming Magic has an element of grace doing the strangest of things,
From making a woman appear,
To sawing one in half.
My magic is a personal show of which only I can see.
My acts can leave the most horrendous of scars if done improperly.
My magic grabs that fixation that is entertained with the odd colors as well as my swift and slow hands as they purposely take lead.
This magic leaves a sweet but bitter taste in my mouth as I preform,
Feeling only excitement and adrenaline.
As I preform,
My arms become swollen and red,
I write in my sharp silver and it turns into a broken red,
I can only continue until the pain is let out through the dripping blood and silent sobs.
My magic covers my body in thick and slim scars, laced in a random occurrence.
I have never quite liked magic as much as I have now,
And I have never imagined it would become such a powerful thing.
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The truth
RandomWe all want to hear the truth, but how mush of what we are hearing is the truth? The truth is based off the thoughts, poems, prayers/wishes, and stories of a teen with a passion to make everyone else happy. She has trouble with pleasing herself or f...