The Spirit Of Scum bei Poetry.de

Black Valentine · 30.06.2007, 11:06

hallo!

hier ist eine kleine geschichte,die ich eigentlich erst auf deutsch geschrieben hatte, aber die auf englisch viel schöner klingt und auch verständlicher ist. ich hoffe, es ist ok, wenn ich etwas englisches hier reinstelle! na mal sehen, was ihr dazu sagt! wenn ihr irgendwelche fehler findet,sagt mir bitte bescheid!

liebe grüße!

The Spirit Of Scum

He just stood there, meanwhile he resolved to come undone. His arms dangled exanimatly on his body, those on knees ripped jeans made him look a bit more pathetic. His light blue t-shirt with a Nirvana image streamed in the upcoming wind, as if it wanted to give way to his body. He had closed his eyes and turned to the ground but you could clearly see how angry he was. Even if nobody had ever seen him being angry. In irregular interspaces water dropped onto the middle of his head, ran down his bleached hair, that in the meantime looked like a wet haystack, and left dark blue runlets on his shirt. He was rooted to the spot, apparently immobilized, as each further drop of cold wetness would topple him more and more into the abyss. Each further drop of water flowed down his ceeks and dripped off his chin to the ground. And each further drop looked more and more like a tear that touched the stone bottom only to feed the sky with black clouds. The sunlight seemed already to be swallowed, while Kurt Cobain with his distinctive voice shouted the chorus of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" in innumerable time.

Wasn't that the motto he'd lived for for so long? Now there was nobody he could blame his unhandiness on. Now all of a sudden he didn't find everything and everyone boring. Now he wasn't drunk on apathy anymore but he was on detoxication. And there wouldn't be ever an encore of his most successful hoaxes for the cheering crowed in his spirit. He was dead. While the irony of fate stuck to his shoes like chewing gum and slowly began to entwine around him. This time he was the one who entertained the others and made them laugh. More or less involuntarily. "Here we are now, entertain us!" Everone's several gaze hiked over him and speared him. Not even his immoderate shyness could help him any longer. None could bring him back to life. Because it draged him under and bashed him on the bottom. His confidence had misused him, although he thought the would stay along forever.

She steped forward him. He languidly raised his head as it was made from aureate lead. He felt a stampede of blood rushing through his veins as he had drunk too much alcohol. He had to be a man, he owed it her. Her and every else of his lost friends. Isn't it awful to feel like that? And at last he felt that he had handed all his innocence. Long enough he had put her for this robbery into prison but now he knew he had to pay for this. Would he get the chair or lethal injection? His selfish days were over like the love in his hand was wilted, because he had ignored it. And this stood for capital punishment. He forgot everything he knew because now he died as the last witness of his hope. She had slain him in the fight by her own hand however he had stabbed her with his knife over and over again. A hoarse, anxious laughter left his lips, again it would end like it always does. You cannot heal putrid hearts. Not even his appearance of a doomed godness could change her mind, while the blood droped from her hand and he lay broken on the floor.

30.06.2007, 11:06	#1
Black Valentine Dabei seit: 05/2007 Beiträge: 74	The Spirit Of Scum hallo! hier ist eine kleine geschichte,die ich eigentlich erst auf deutsch geschrieben hatte, aber die auf englisch viel schöner klingt und auch verständlicher ist. ich hoffe, es ist ok, wenn ich etwas englisches hier reinstelle! na mal sehen, was ihr dazu sagt! wenn ihr irgendwelche fehler findet,sagt mir bitte bescheid! liebe grüße! The Spirit Of Scum He just stood there, meanwhile he resolved to come undone. His arms dangled exanimatly on his body, those on knees ripped jeans made him look a bit more pathetic. His light blue t-shirt with a Nirvana image streamed in the upcoming wind, as if it wanted to give way to his body. He had closed his eyes and turned to the ground but you could clearly see how angry he was. Even if nobody had ever seen him being angry. In irregular interspaces water dropped onto the middle of his head, ran down his bleached hair, that in the meantime looked like a wet haystack, and left dark blue runlets on his shirt. He was rooted to the spot, apparently immobilized, as each further drop of cold wetness would topple him more and more into the abyss. Each further drop of water flowed down his ceeks and dripped off his chin to the ground. And each further drop looked more and more like a tear that touched the stone bottom only to feed the sky with black clouds. The sunlight seemed already to be swallowed, while Kurt Cobain with his distinctive voice shouted the chorus of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" in innumerable time. Wasn't that the motto he'd lived for for so long? Now there was nobody he could blame his unhandiness on. Now all of a sudden he didn't find everything and everyone boring. Now he wasn't drunk on apathy anymore but he was on detoxication. And there wouldn't be ever an encore of his most successful hoaxes for the cheering crowed in his spirit. He was dead. While the irony of fate stuck to his shoes like chewing gum and slowly began to entwine around him. This time he was the one who entertained the others and made them laugh. More or less involuntarily. "Here we are now, entertain us!" Everone's several gaze hiked over him and speared him. Not even his immoderate shyness could help him any longer. None could bring him back to life. Because it draged him under and bashed him on the bottom. His confidence had misused him, although he thought the would stay along forever. She steped forward him. He languidly raised his head as it was made from aureate lead. He felt a stampede of blood rushing through his veins as he had drunk too much alcohol. He had to be a man, he owed it her. Her and every else of his lost friends. Isn't it awful to feel like that? And at last he felt that he had handed all his innocence. Long enough he had put her for this robbery into prison but now he knew he had to pay for this. Would he get the chair or lethal injection? His selfish days were over like the love in his hand was wilted, because he had ignored it. And this stood for capital punishment. He forgot everything he knew because now he died as the last witness of his hope. She had slain him in the fight by her own hand however he had stabbed her with his knife over and over again. A hoarse, anxious laughter left his lips, again it would end like it always does. You cannot heal putrid hearts. Not even his appearance of a doomed godness could change her mind, while the blood droped from her hand and he lay broken on the floor.