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"description": "Grief sucks. ",
"description_bbcode_parsed": "Grief sucks. ",
"writing": "The lone wolf often, \nas it is wont to do, \nfalters\nperishes\nwhile the pack goes on -\nMaybe with howls to mark the passing,\nbut often\n- with indifference.\nSo is it wont to be.\n\nIn the jungles and forests -\nOf timber and stone\nand paved roads\nwheels\nengines\nclamour and tremors.\n - those who falter can hide\nin the smog of the dying\nimitating life. \n\nThe lone wolf often -\nas it scarcely can\n- wanders to\nbecome someone\nor something\nelse\nwhere elsewhere it cannot\nlook for others that wear\npelts and masks and paper\nbags of all shapes\nwith holes\nto see the world -\nnot as it is, but \n- as it is painted.\n\nIn the spiders' web\nstretched across the sky, I -\nwatch\nfear\nthe world and all it is\nand isn't\n- am the abyss that stares back.\n\nAny spoken word returns\nacidic\nto smelt what remains\nof a train that \nshould never have left its station\nnow a mountain\none step away\nfrom falling.\n\nTo crawl on this web\nfrom one end to another\nstuck\ncowering\nespy what is one truth\nmingled with a thousand others.\nA picture painted by wolves\nshattered in the wake\nof feeling the papercuts\ndig into my cheeks\nbleed across lips that speak -\nechoes of facts\nsuch as they are\n - of impossibilities.\n\nThe lone wolf often,\nas it knows no else to do,\nlies\nsteals\nbut rarely dares shatter\nthe mirror.\n\nIn its reflection is only a lie -\na thought of what I wish to be\nwith no recognition of what I am\n - no eyes that see what's real. \n\nNo wolves here knock on my door,\nno pack to follow with purpose,\nonly I, as I am wont to be\nscurrying away through the sea\nof scattered glass.\nBleeding whiskers\na reality unbidden\nunwanted\nas I am -\nnot a wolf, though still alone\nworth nothing \n - a rat\nas I am wont to be. ",
"writing_bbcode_parsed": "The lone wolf often,
as it is wont to do,
falters
perishes
while the pack goes on -
Maybe with howls to mark the passing,
but often
- with indifference.
So is it wont to be.
In the jungles and forests -
Of timber and stone
and paved roads
wheels
engines
clamour and tremors.
- those who falter can hide
in the smog of the dying
imitating life.
The lone wolf often -
as it scarcely can
- wanders to
become someone
or something
else
where elsewhere it cannot
look for others that wear
pelts and masks and paper
bags of all shapes
with holes
to see the world -
not as it is, but
- as it is painted.
In the spiders' web
stretched across the sky, I -
watch
fear
the world and all it is
and isn't
- am the abyss that stares back.
Any spoken word returns
acidic
to smelt what remains
of a train that
should never have left its station
now a mountain
one step away
from falling.
To crawl on this web
from one end to another
stuck
cowering
espy what is one truth
mingled with a thousand others.
A picture painted by wolves
shattered in the wake
of feeling the papercuts
dig into my cheeks
bleed across lips that speak -
echoes of facts
such as they are
- of impossibilities.
The lone wolf often,
as it knows no else to do,
lies
steals
but rarely dares shatter
the mirror.
In its reflection is only a lie -
a thought of what I wish to be
with no recognition of what I am
- no eyes that see what's real.
No wolves here knock on my door,
no pack to follow with purpose,
only I, as I am wont to be
scurrying away through the sea
of scattered glass.
Bleeding whiskers
a reality unbidden
unwanted
as I am -
not a wolf, though still alone
worth nothing
- a rat
as I am wont to be. ",
"pools_count": 0,
"title": "Wont to be.",
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