I would like to share with you all that I plan on giving deep messages or expressions of writing to make you all think, not about anything inparticular, just to reach into your souls and find out what's inside. 
My first piece is called 5-aclock shadow. The man escaped the dark shadows of his past at the moment moment he felt the twitch of his unveloping eyes. It happened again; out of the dark cave for which his 6:30 alarm clock pull him out of came distant, terrible strands of his past. The woman, the boy, and their killer. At one point in time... the man could wear a suite and call this something that lawyers and doctors can nod at. Now he knew better. The scraps of smiles and picture-taking and barbecues was burned to a crisp. All that remained were ashes, sprinkled around his memory to accent his loss of hope. You cant call that "Post-Traumatic-Stress disorder". You can call it the one result you get when a man brutally steals everything that you went to church for, got a degree for, fought in a war for, heh heh, even shaved for in the morning. Now there's no need, now the man lets the hairs thrive on his face, on this particular morning at 5:30 am, he stared at the mirror and that mirror eagerly showed him the 5-aclock shadow that took root on his face. He then realized their was one thing left to do, that killer is still out there and needs to be put to Justice, justice, that's a word he cared for... he picked up his jagged razor and started to shave.
Hope you guys enjoyed the piece!
My first piece is called 5-aclock shadow. The man escaped the dark shadows of his past at the moment moment he felt the twitch of his unveloping eyes. It happened again; out of the dark cave for which his 6:30 alarm clock pull him out of came distant, terrible strands of his past. The woman, the boy, and their killer. At one point in time... the man could wear a suite and call this something that lawyers and doctors can nod at. Now he knew better. The scraps of smiles and picture-taking and barbecues was burned to a crisp. All that remained were ashes, sprinkled around his memory to accent his loss of hope. You cant call that "Post-Traumatic-Stress disorder". You can call it the one result you get when a man brutally steals everything that you went to church for, got a degree for, fought in a war for, heh heh, even shaved for in the morning. Now there's no need, now the man lets the hairs thrive on his face, on this particular morning at 5:30 am, he stared at the mirror and that mirror eagerly showed him the 5-aclock shadow that took root on his face. He then realized their was one thing left to do, that killer is still out there and needs to be put to Justice, justice, that's a word he cared for... he picked up his jagged razor and started to shave.Hope you guys enjoyed the piece!
