Athrun-Zala-guy

i carry three pennies in my pocket. one, i found on the bathroom sink at a hostel in liverpool. it has the face of a man who came to my town once and read something off a matchbook. two, i found on the floor at the residence hall in london. i wanted to go to paris too but i went to leicester instead. not sure if that was the better decision. three, i received as change when i bought something for 99p. i don't remember where. nothing really special about it. just never made it to my wallet i guess. i stack the three pennies from biggest to smallest inside my pocket. the one in the middle is from my home. but it is trapped be

I hate my muse for poetry. She lights upon my shoulder like Tinkerbell would to Peter. I never liked Tink. "Write," she tells me. She has one of those voices that's so sweet it's deadly. It makes me sick. She's not like my story muse, Who commands while she holds me in a vice grip. Poetry holds me, but does not command. Soft as a silken noose. She's not like my muse of art; He suggests. He's a perfectionist. He knows what he wants, but it's still my choice. Poetry gives me no choice. And she's cruel. She too knows what she wants, But doesn't tell me how to do it. "The words are up to you to find, my dear," she murmurs, smili