The past is paid for.
The wounds may leave scars,
But the scars are only there to remind us that We are human.
Everyone has scars.
~T.D. Jakes
Demons from a haunted past
Oh, how they love to sit and laugh
At all of your tiny mistakes
In the darkness, they sit and wait
For your will to crumble and break
Your pure soul they want to take
To a darkened, hated place
Where your life, you will forsake
So now, with nothing left to hold onto
This simple imperfect life is through.
~Me
Your probably goth (good for you). But this also makes most of the things you say creepy to others. Your probably trying to be mean but your slighty twisted so you end up scaring people. But who cares they still go away which is what you wanted. Try creeping people out by saying....
You lurk with in the shadows and keep within your mind. When people feel like their being watched, it's normally you who is to blame. Silent and creepy. GET OUT AND SEE THE SUNSHINE!
If you haven't made it by my page to sign my guestbook...please come check it out. I have over 22,000 friends and not even 400 signatures...come on i want to see your beautiful pics all over my page. ((Thank You to those who have taken the time to do so already =] ur the best)) MUAH
» To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep:
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.