Man That You Fear (Marilyn Manson)

Man That You Fear (Marilyn Manson)

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WpMetadataReadComplete Fri, Apr 18, 20141h 24m
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Fanfic
"I thought of my memories of my precious daughter and my perfect wife and what they would feel in less than an hour. I wasn't worried for me...I was worried and sad for them, that I would have to leave them behind. Elise would not have a husband to support her anymore and she would have to take on the task of supporting Evangeline and a new baby soon enough. Evangeline would live the rest of her life with faint memories of me, nightmares of what was about to happen to her Daddy, the one who left her when she was barely old enough to take on all of it. The baby would never grow up with a father, it would never know him or be held by him. I wasn't being selfish in thinking any of this, but was only thinking of what they would have to endure...it wasn't how the family was supposed to be. The Stoning and every last person who supported it was responsible not only for the deaths of innocent people and many other countless things, but also of tearing apart a family, breaking what should be."
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#14
condemned
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FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.

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