okay. so i'm going to put up the first 4 choices and if no body else gives me appropriate choices / critism, i'm going to hand in 2 and 4.

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1 : Secrets

i took off the explict parts :P

Secrets

Private and Confidential.

What are they?

Lies.

Where can they be found?

Everywhere, anywhere.

How can they be found?

Expose them, unmask them.

Who do they belong to?

You, me, anyone, everyone.

All of us have got secrets, small secrets, big secrets.
We whisper them, shout them, mumble them, or think them.

We write them, draw them. Anything, to help us keep them.

Some of us are bursting with secrets, we cannot help but tell somebody, our secrets.

Betrayers, liars, backstabbers. They tell everyone your secrets. Trust-them-not.

The rest of us, have our lips glued.

No glue is strong enough, for the lies of humanity. No lock can hide what is meant to be revealed.

Secrets, they echo down the hallway, they float in the air, they hiss in the classroom.
Though, if you are searching for the deepest and darkest secrets, they can be found only in our private sanctuary, or places that we think, no one visits.

The places that overflow with secrets, are overlooked, and visited everyday. But, the secrets hide in the shadows of pain.

The waste basket rustles with betrayal, secrets scrawled over it's wrinkly contents. Cautious scribbles, elegant scrawls, they all hide secrets that are too deep, too dark, to be voiced.

For if they were to be voiced, the elegant masks would shatter into thousands of beautiful pieces. Beauty is superficial, and all it takes is one secret exposure for the veil to fall.

For fear that it be overheard, eavesdropped, stolen, and kept in the heart of another; Another whom is not the intended, another whom is not invited into the circle of trust.

The circle of trust, who is the ringleader?

Crushed scraps, words, foolscap, sentences, journal paper, prose. Ideas, thoughts, plans, blueprints, the heart's expression can all be found, composed with the pen, onto paper.

For agony is what it feels without its expression.

Flushed down the toilet, the washroom rings with cries of anguish. It utters dark curses, regurgitates the words of its user. User of its services, user of its comfort. In a dark stall at the end of the toilet, a girl can be found, everyday, sometimes, always, occasionally.

Confiding, confessing, confusing.

She sits there, and she shares her deep and darkest secrets with, the toilet. It is, wordless communication. Mutual trust, or maybe, just the recognition that what transcends in that cubicle, must and never will be repeated.

It can't be repeated.

Tears, pain, despair, anger, you can find that all in the washroom.

That is, until it's washed away.

The shower is, a part of the washroom, and yet, a place of its own. A shower is where we get in touch, literally, with our physical self.

And our mental and spiritual self.

Where we watch ourselves change as we age, as we indulge in foolish habits. Like whistling in the shower, singing while we scrub ourselves.

I love the salty sweet blend of my tears and the shower. How foolish.

It is a place where no one is expected to, and where no one does, watch us; Because, it is where we discover, the darker side of ourselves too.

The screaming, the blood that streams down dark and red.

Our bedrooms, are our sanctuaries.

Angel Sanctuary.

Places where no one you interact with outside the house can enter, where no eye but yours can view if you were to choose. A place where you are at your weakest, your most vulnerable.

Mumbling like we are young again, drooling all over the pillow. Children are weak.

A time, when all guards are down, when are masks disintegrate, when our secrets are murmured unknowingly, unintentionally.

The walls have ears.

A time when we sleep, when we chase after our dreams, our hopes, our nightmares. A kingdom, palace, and land of our own making, a world where we belong. Because, we created it.

In our world, we have our own brand of monsters.

The bed, is our haven for exploration, of the soul, mind, and body.
And when the mice explore, the cat comes out to play, after it is, let out of the bag.

Of course.

---

2: Remix Of Secrets (poetry)
it's essentially very similar :O

Secrets


What are they
Where can they be found
How can they be found
Who do they belong to


All of us have got secrets,
small secrets, big secrets.

We whisper them, shout them,
mumble them, or think them.
We write them, draw them.

Some are bursting with secrets,
they cannot help but tell somebody,
our secrets.


The rest of us, have our lips glued.
No glue is strong enough, for the lies of humanity.
No lock can hide what is meant to be revealed.


They echo down the hallway,
they float in the air,
they hiss in the classroom.

Yet, the deepest and darkest
Can only be found, where we think,
no one visits.



The waste basket rustles with betrayal,
secrets scrawled over it's wrinkly contents.

Cautious scribbles, elegant scrawls,
they all hide secrets that are
too deep, too dark, to be voiced.


For fear that it be overheard,
Eavesdropped or stolen,
and kept in the heart of another;

Another whom is not the intended,
another whom is not invited
into the circle of trust.

Crushed scraps, words,
foolscap, sentences,
journal paper, prose.

Ideas, thoughts,
plans, and blueprints,

The heart's expression can all be found,
composed with the pen, onto paper.



Flushed down the toilet,
the washroom rings;
cries of anguish,
dark curses


It regurgitates,
the words of its user.

User of its services,
user of its comfort.

In a dark stall
at the end of the toilet,
a girl can be found everyday,
sometimes, always, occasionally.


She sits and shares
her deep and darkest secrets
with, the toilet.

This is, wordless communication.
Mutual trust, or,
recognition that these
must and never will be repeated.


Tears, pain,
despair, and anger,

you can find that all
in the washroom.


The shower,
a part of the washroom,
a place of its own.

Where we get in touch, literally,
with our physical self.

Watching ourselves change
as we age, as we indulge
in foolish habits.

Whistling in the shower,
Singing, while we scrub.


It is a place where no one
is expected to, where no one does,
watch us;

Because, it is where we discover,
the darker side of me.


Our bedrooms, are our sanctuaries.

Places where no one outside can enter,
where no eye but yours can see.
A place where we are at our weakest,
our most vulnerable.


Sleep, a time when
all guards are down.

When the masks disintegrate,
when our secrets are murmured
unknowingly, unintentionally.

A kingdom, and land
of our own making,
a world where we belong;
because, we created it.

---

3: Fallen Angel

p.s. should i change the names?

"Hi! How has your day been?" She sat down next to my bed, in the same metal chair that has always been there.

Doesn't she get bored of coming here everyday for the last 3 years?

"I've written another chapter of my story! Want to hear?"

Sure, anyways even if I didn't, you would still tell me.

"Okay, here it goes!"

Yes, here it goes again.

"Well, you remember the last chapter right?"

Crystal clear, I even remember that you cried all over my sketchbook.

"Like I said, Nandeshiko crossed the road without looking around.."

Uh oh.

"And.. and.."

I knew it.

"Syaoran accidentally crashed into her!"

Mental images; drawings.

"There was blood everywhere."

There was red everywhere, on the road, all over my clothes, even under my shoes.

"There was confusion, and everyone was screaming."

And the screaming echoed, just, so, loud. I wondered where it came from, before I realised, it was my voice.

"The by-standers were screaming, running, they didn't know what to do. Poor Nandeshiko just lay there, forgotten and unwanted."

And they trod all over me, not knowing that I was still alive. Not knowing that I could still feel. I may have just been knocked down, but if you step on me, do I not feel? If you cut me, do I not bleed?

"When they managed to get her to the hospital later, it was too late."

The world had begun spinning, and it was dark all around, like I was in a void. I was so afraid.

"She had lost too much blood and her brain had begun malfunctioning."

I saw my dead mother plunge a knife into his heart, just like the way she did to herself.

"She had to be put into a mental hospital, because she could not speak."

The blood was dark, and the waves swelled. They crashed over me, I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

"She had to be put into a mental hospital, because she could not hear."

All around me I could only hear the roaring silence that was just so deafening.

"She had to be put into a mental hospital, because she could not see."

It was so dark, so black, so void in here. I placed my hands in front of me, yet I could not see them, such was the thickness of this black fog.

"Yet, though she could not speak, hear, nor see; There was nothing wrong with her."

There was no one here to talk to, no one who would talk to me, none that I could see.

"They ran numerous tests, the nurses had to carry her because she could not see, and therefore could not walk."

I could feel hands, yet I could not see them. I felt the firm ground, yet when I moved my legs, the ground did not move beneath me. Were those even my own legs beneath me?

"Finally, they placed her in a white room, in a white bed."

The room was white, the sheets were white. I thought I was in heaven, yet, heaven was white, not grey. The walls were grey, the sheets were grey; They looked white, yet I knew they were grey. Who were they trying to trick?

"Next to the bed, was a white chair."

There was a grey chair, next to the bed. Who were they waiting for? More importantly, who was I waiting for?

"And everyday, her best friend would come and visit her."

One day, a girl came in. She was pretty, pretty to look at, and pretty to draw. I drew her.

"And everyday, she would tell her a story."

Everyday she told me a story, but it always sounded the same. Even though her lips moved differently everytime. So, I drew the only thing that changed, her lips. And her clothes, and her hair, and her.

"And everytime, the girl would not say a word."

I talked to her, I replied her questions. Yet, her replies did not tally with my replies. Could she even hear me?

"She just stared at her best friend and drew, and drew, and drew."

Can the world hear me?

"And that's my story! Did you like it?"

No, it always sounds the same.

"I knew you'd like it! That's why I came to tell it to you!"

See. Can you even hear me?

"Okay! I'm going! Bye!"

Bye! Please don't come tomorrow!

"See you tomorrow!"

Uh oh.

---

4: Portrait of a Fallen Angel (story)
i added a descriptive, and i ask AGAIN, SHOULD I CHANGE THE NAMES?

Everyday the same scene replayed itself at the mental institution, the national mental institution. The only one in Japan, for not many mentally ill people would admit that there was something wrong, and sign themselves in.

A young girl, petite and pretty, walked slowly down the hallway. Past the registration counter, past the staff room, past the nurses who approached her gently, “Tomoyo-san, are you alright?” Her tears shone pearly white under the cool lights, streaming down her cheeks in torrents.

Then, she stopped outside the door. Her fingers touched the door, gliding up the wood expanse till it was stopped. Stopped by the black label on the door, W-A-R-D-7-0-1, she traced the shapes with a trembling finger, her body wrecked with silent sobs. The anguish was written all over her face, imprinted with the mark of a scarred soul.

Slowly, she would wipe her tears with careful precision. The black laced handkerchief a cold contrast against the pale porcelain of her cheek, a barrier from the world in which she hid behind. The tears, the soft, almost silent murmur behind the handkerchief, “It’s all my fault.. It’s all my fault.. Please, open up to me.” Her now clenched fists would pound softly, with what seemed like careful calculated softness, against the door with every word, making no sound.

Spent, she turned, back against the wall, head tilted towards the heavens. The look of pure torture on her face revealed the conflict of emotions within her, the pain, the anguish, and to a bystander who walked by, her plea. Falling to her knees, the only word that fell from her lips now was a plea to the almighty god above, “Onegai.” Her clasped hands transcended all language barriers, expressing her one hope, one need, “Please.”

From afar, the scene looked like one would find in a church, not in a mental institution. A fallen angel garbed in a black edged white dress, her long hair falling across her face not masking the pain in her face. Kneeling in prayer, her hands clasped tightly together. And her eyes, dark whirlpools of anguish with the light snuffed out of them, swimming with tears.

Finally, after a moment or two, she would rise. Slowly, she would take out a notebook from her bag. Clutching it tightly, she would turn the doorknob, opening the ward door.

Within the ward, the cause of her misery, guilt, and pain, was a girl. She was not any other girl, at least not to her visitor, Tomoyo. To Tomoyo, this room contained, housed, and sheltered her best friend, Sakura.

As the light from the windows streamed into the room, a peaceful scene met Tomoyo’s eyes. A girl sat in the hospital bed, draped in white sheets. The soft scribble of a pencil was the only sound in the room as Sakura drew in her sketchbook, her brow furrowed with concentration. In a room where everything was white, the walls, the curtains, the bed, and even Sakura’ skin, her brown hair was the only splash of colour in the room; And even that was a dull and unhealthy shade.

The pale, skinny girl in the bed was a mere shade of the girl Tomoyo once knew, the girl whom existed 3 years ago, and was now a happy but faded memory. The Sakura Tomoyo once knew was a lively girl who smiled often. They were childhood friends and Tomoyo had never seen Sakura quiet except when she slept, but now, the girl in front of her was sketching in a muted silence. It was hard to believe they used to be the same person, except for the fact that Tomoyo witnessed the event that led to this change, first-hand.

For everyday since that faithful accident, since the day Sakura was first admitted into the mental institution, Tomoyo was a regular visitor. Never late, always arriving at the same time, she visited everyday. On every single one of those days, she had a tale to tell Sakura, and Sakura had a picture to give her. That made up 1095 different stories or chapters, and 1095 pictures, or portraits of Tomoyo, to be exact.

Sometimes, as Tomoyo drew the chair nearer to the bed and sat down to begin her story, she wondered what Sakura was thinking in her own isolated world, and how she was feeling.

next page

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"Hi! How has your day been?" She sat down next to my bed, in the same metal chair that has always been there.


"I've written another chapter of my story! Want to hear?"

"Okay, here it goes!"


"Well, you remember the last chapter right?"


"Like I said, Nandeshiko crossed the road without looking around.."


"And.. and.."


"Syaoran accidentally crashed into her!"


"There was blood everywhere."


"There was confusion, and everyone was screaming."


"The by-standers were screaming, running, they didn't know what to do. Poor Nandeshiko just lay there, forgotten and unwanted."


"When they managed to get her to the hospital later, it was too late."

"She had lost too much blood and her brain had begun malfunctioning."

"She had to be put into a mental hospital, because she could not speak."


"She had to be put into a mental hospital, because she could not hear."

"She had to be put into a mental hospital, because she could not see."


"Yet, though she could not speak, hear, nor see; There was nothing wrong with her."


"They ran numerous tests, the nurses had to carry her because she could not see, and therefore could not walk."


"Finally, they placed her in a white room, in a white bed."


"Next to the bed, was a white chair."


"And everyday, her best friend would come and visit her."


"And everyday, she would tell her a story."


"And everytime, the girl would not say a word."


"She just stared at her best friend and drew, and drew, and drew."


"And that's my story! Did you like it?"


"I knew you'd like it! That's why I came to tell it to you!"


"Okay! I'm going! Bye!"


"See you tomorrow!"

---

so there it goes! THE END

-- xiiao* deathie ♫

Labels: emotionally-bound, story, stressed, work, yourspurpley