These pretty much go in reverse order, "The Need" is about three months old.

The Need
Broken and angry he sits and fumes at the source of his displeasure. A father whom can't and won't see the pain that he's causing. It's not the size of what he does, but the impact at the wrong times. This father doesn't know that his son would take a sharp metal object, watch it shine dully in his hand, and carve lines into his skin. And watch the rivulets of blood flow from the wound and enjoy the momentary feeling of control. He'd never understand how his son works, he'd just make it worse and worse, maybe the son will tell him some day, and smile sadly at the pain and lack of understaning thats sure to be etched on his face. But who would understand? Who could know? Who would know the struggle not to do it, who would understand how hard it is to fight it, and how much harder it is to win. A minor mishap when in a lower mood, and thus begins the struggle. It's like swimming up an avalanche and all you can do is hold on to one thing, but that's not always enough, and nothing can stop you. And you do it, and you feel the control and calm rush through you, then the embarassment comes, then the need to camouflage the site, and thus the weakness that it represents, but you still feel better, still relieved and still calm. And you always remember that, and it always creeps up, and you have to fight, even if you want to lose...especially when you want to lose.


The Stage
There are no steamy stage lights where he works, there is no red carpet or awards for best scene or best emotion. He's here to steal the show, but he's not in hollywood. This is the real world, real stakes, real chance, real fear, real success. This actuality never scared him but comforted him, it wasn't acting, it was life. He's been the star of the show since he learned how to gain and keep an audience, only two years but it's been a good run. He should feel fake, or insincere, but he cares, about everyone, and that's why he can be who he is, and act how he does. He cares if you're upset over a broken nail, lost love, or an argument with a friend. And by purloining their attention, he diverted thier eyes from himself, and his feelings. He was the well known shadow, the loving mist, and a blanket for those in need, and by being such, hid his own problems better than any anti-social behavior, and he awarded himself a prize, loneliness through strong company, and this he regretted none. Because he's not perfect and a few have managed to penetrate his defense, and he's not alone, and all the while, he cares.


The Aqua Hug
A large splash, followed by a quieter one then an eruption of bubbles. This is all that marked the passing of the boy. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt from his first concert. His pants are also a faded black, from 6th grade, so worn and broken that they felt as if sweatpants. None of that really mattered, he was sinking further and further into the lake. The water growing deeper and darker as he plunges into it's depths. There were two strings, one tied to each of his ankles. And below them hung a large cinderblock. He looks up and smiles, no turning back, no second thoughts, it's over, no more pain, simply nothing. He thinks about all he's leaving behind and tries to care but he can't, he doesn't want to, he's done with that world, and now he's onto somehing new. He breaths deep and feels a slight crush on his chest, as the water hugs him tightly and rocks him into oblivion, with a smile soddered to his face.


Dew Drop Mantra
It's dark again, cool breezes creep over the skin of a boy laying, arms at his sides, coated in late night dew, that normally covers the grass. The drops had also formed upon his skin, Each an imperfect little drop of sparkling beauty, and he'd imagine each one and think about his friends. They loved him, if only he could learn to love himself, but loathing was all he knew. He see nothing but bravado, a smile, a fake, monopolizing the lime light, only to disguise what's underneath. He thinks about the scores of darkened lines that criss cross the more obscure parts of his body. The night air grows heavy as does his mood, he breathes the sweet air and calms himself, and repeated the one saying that kept him going, I care, I care... I care.


The Lover's Heart
It's on the floor. Still beating, a throb of love and aguish, and hushed for eternity. The sticky red sap that has oozed around it slowly hardens as the air surrounds it. He stands above himself, with his hands covered in the red nectar of life, and he smiles, no more feelings for him, no more shall he be weak, and no more shall he be haunted by fears and doubts. He goes into his kitchen, looks up and to his right and opens the third cabinet. The falimar creak of an hinge needs oil. Inside is a jar, just the right size for a heart, with a lid that will screw down tigtly to prevent its excape. He reaches up and notices that he got a red smude on the handle of the cabinet, absent mindely he reminds himself to clean that off later. The jar slids comfortably into the crook of his left arm as he spins on his heel and retreats back to the foyer. He picks up the glistening organ, and gingerly lays it on the bottom of the jar, removes his hand and tightly screws down the lid. Tweleve steps to the closet, he opens the door and is greeted by the falimar sights of the other jars piled tenderly upon one another, and he adds the latest one to his collection. He knows he won't be wanting for one for too long, they seem to grow back so quickly now a days.


Modern American Gothica
Tick, the hands on the antique grandfather clock creak as the minute hand moves one mark to the right, the pendulum has completed its sixetyith swing. Tock, the seconds slide by as the hand crafted wood resonates with an old yet menacing tone. Spreading slowly over the floor of the house it happens upon a boy, staring terror striken at his cereal. A cockroach is in the process of extricating itself from bits of cereal. Tick, the cockroach grows ever closer to the edge of the bowl as the clock spreads past. Out and into the garage where a cars engine produces a miniature whine as the fumes slowly fill the garage. Escape was the only option and there is no terror, only a quietly screaming resignation. Tock, up the walls it slithers and invades the room where the beautiful blonde girl with piercing blue diamond eyes stares into the bureau mirror, and sees a distorted image in return. This moment she's thinking about going to the bathroom, again, there she'll rid herself of that imagined fat, and her other illusory imperfections. Tick, under the door, across the hallway carpet, over the stains and rotted and mouldy bits of food that litter its rough grey surface. The door is open and the mother lays on the bed. One hand is slid off a side and in it  there is a letter. The  letter informs her that her eldest son was killed in the war and that she has their empty and unconsoling condolances, as her fingers grip tighter and tighter. She feels alone and helpless, adrift on a sea of emotion and a hurricane of doubt and anger. She is alone now, in every sense, she's no longer alive, her heart has turned to glass and it shattered on the stone skin of the world. Tock, the only constant in their lives, and the only similarity they all share. An ever present enigmna never under stood but accepted, only menacing because of its surroundings. And life goes on, this being just 6 seconds despair in a broken home.


The Boy Lost
The boy hides alone with his eyes bleeding warm salty drops that fall onto the coarse and biting dirt beneath him. He's been thinking again, about life, love and loss, and how badly it hurts to lose someone you love. He beats the ground hoping to drain his body of the weakness that seems to control his whole being. He can't stop thinking about how he wishes the gound to open and he could fall silently to the core of the earth and never worry about anything again. Oh yes, he's been thinking, and now he's dangerous. A loose cannon, you better watch out, he's just as likely to slam his overly large fists into your body as he is to wail like a baby and scream cuz he feels so alone and useless. Nothing matters to him as he again beats the ground and finally collapses, rolls onto his back and looks up, the trees are rustling in the wind, his hands ache, a dull throb that he know's all too well. He's alone in the world, because he chooses to self-destruct because of his inability to express himself any other way. So he stares at the trees and waits for the feelings to pass and for the next day when he goes into the world with his mask of a smile and continues his sad excuse for a life.


The Boy and Forest
The dirt crunches beneath his feet as he walks along a silent stream surrounded by rocks that seem to be half battling the moss that threatens to cover them whole. The trees are all oak's, tall and strong they match not only his body type, but also his personality. He looks at the tree which at this moment seems like a distant cousin wonders if he'd rather be like the tree. Tall and strong, a tough exterior and an interior that can stand up to an excessive amount of abuse. But it lacks feelings and emotions, which are both his biggest strength and most obvious weakness. He realizes that although the tree won't damage as easily, there is much to be learned from a few bruises both outside and in, and this causes him to smile, and begin to accept that everything happens for a reason. The dirt crunches beneath his feet again as he begins to walk, he hadn't realized that he stopped walking. The stream lays silently by and the trees stand tall as if a guard of honor for his hushed passing.
    meh, it's not quite what i wanted, i may work on it later, but hey as of now here it is. Wow that bites, too much and, too little description, to little thought/setting detail. Damn it i'm gonna have to work on that



Street Thoughts
The boy is laying down in the middle of the street, not really suicidal just enjoying the thrill of the pavement beneath his body. The false fear and hope of a car hurdling along that road brings a smile to his face. He knows no fear of the physical world. Hit him, beat him, trace red lines through his skin, see if he cares. It's when he lets his soul out, for a breath of fresh air that he truly gets hurt. Seemingly invincible the armor is really paper when up against the blade of her tongue. He's vulnerable, an annoying experience he tries to keep to a minimum but his heart won't listen to his mind, and his soul only takes direction from his heart. He's free but he's trapped by his own decisions, knowing he really has no control. The crunch of pavement disturbs his throughts and lazily he rolls to his left, seemingly into the oncoming car, but he rolls right past and off the road onto the grass nearby. The car never noticed and continues without a moment's hesitation. He rolls himself back onto that pavement and smiles again as he realizes that no matter how hard he tries, he'll always have his heart on his sleeve, and his soul will always be there for any who wish to see it.

Mirror, Mirror
I took a look in the mirror, at the face i've known for my whole life. And I look as if through the eyes of a stranger. I Look deep into my eyes, and follow the falimar path right down into my heart. I see a boy becoming a man, frightened of being helpless. A child of the earth whom has lied to the entire world, an actor from his own playwriting. He has written his own life. He has changed people, events, memories to suit his own design. He's lied to the world, hidden whom he truly was because he's not proud of it. He's run from those whom can see through it and he's running again. Love is his ultimate goal and biggest enemy. He wants to leave, he hates who he is, he knows that by lying he's doing good but he's not happy. He'll never be happy. As i look at my own soul, i see that it's black, I'm a liar, I fake who i am, i fake my thoughts. I am an emotion, i am caring and i'll help anyone whom needs it because i care nothign about myself. I am worthless and wanting, in my self-unhappiness i realize that i help people by design and that i will again suffer by default. This is it, this is over. I have given up on self happiness, the plot of this script i've been writing is finally illuminated and i see that i'm unhappy but in being so, i make those around me happy. This is the way it was, this is the way it is, this is the way it will be.


She's my Helen, She's my butterfly
The face that launched a thousand ships
Carried away on spurious wings

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