A Never Ending Midnight

(A/N I hope this is decent. BTW this one’s a song! With an actual tune and everything LOL)

Verse 1

Scarlet taints

Toothy grins

On sunny faces

As gums give way

And begin to bleed

 

Hollow eyes

That once laughed

Now only stare back

Accusing you

Of lies and deceit.

 

 

Chorus

Now mornings are filled with nightmares

Tender hands, are full of grime

The golden past lies forgotten

The present is barren and bleak

A never ending midnight.

 

 

Verse 2

The world was once

A smiling face

But now it’s ailing

Burdened with

Unhappiness

 

Children work

They toil away

Away from their games

And all their dreams

Have been snatched away

Contemplation

(A/N Just thought I’d try my hand at fanfiction. Here are the results. Hope they aren’t too disastrous. I’d love to hear what you make of it. Be as rude as you feel like as long as you know what you’re talking about)

A ghost of a smile graced the young gent’s usually grim face as he fixed his gaze upon the infamous tapestry before him. He fixed his shaggy mane as it obstructed his line of sight and followed with diligent grey orbs the singe marks that adorned it. It was these marks, he thought, that made the entire wall worth even glancing at. The marks denoted all of those who had managed to learn to think for themselves and see sense – those who knew that their lineage had naught to do with their capabilities or lack thereof, and did not give them any right to turn their abnormally large noses up at others.

These were the people with courage to stand up for what they believed in and become their own person. These were the people who would give their lives for a friend. These people dreamed and cared, and wanted things for themselves. These blackened Blacks had an earnestness that the rest of the “family” could not bear to tolerate, and had pushed them away.

And he was one such person.

Sirius Black certainly took pride in having disowned and having been disowned by the elitist, snotties he had the misfortune to be related to. – to be the dog star in his black family. He was proud, that he was a free man – free, even while he had been in a prison that was built to suck away souls and make rag dolls out of men.

Twelve dark years, Sirius had spent in prison, made to repent for a crime he did not commit, and yet blamed himself for; with no blood in his hands, but with guilt plaguing his veins. These twelve years, he had thought, would stretch onto an eternity of grieving for his beloved brother and best friend – James Potter. It would be, he had feared, an eternity of never beholding the smiles on his godson’s face again, and never watching him grow up and pampering him rotten, and sulk around when he went off to school whilst being proud of the brat.

In this fictitious, dreadful eternity, Sirius could never apologize to Remus, for wrongly suspecting him for the most heinous crime he could think of, and one in which the whole world knew him to be far worse than your average muggle – loathing pro-pure blood Black. Most of all, it was one in which he could never make Peter Pettigrew pay.

He had feared that he would never again have a warm drink of butterbeer, ride a broomstick, pick on Snivellus or just hang out with his friends. Sirius’ thoughts grew dark. Thy drifted towards the hooded hooligans who had kept him at baay. He shuddered – never again, he thought.

Yet, here Sirius was – in his ancestral house (he refused to call it a “home”), which he had thought he had sworn never to come back to, standing before solid evidence of how much his former family loathed him. He had found a new family now – Harry, the Weasleys, the rest of the order and that little muggle born girl – Hermione Granger, and why not – even Buckbeak was family.

He may not be in an ideal situation, being on the run (while actually being rooted to one place, he noted sourly) , and with Voldemort at large, but for the moment, he was satisfied with how he had turned out.

“Stains of dishonour, filthy half-breeds, blood traitors, children of filth!”

Curse that shrieking woman. He kept telling them not to ring the doorbell. Sirius snapped out of his thoughts, getting up to draw the curtains and shut his dear departed mother up. One thing had not changed over the years – he loved to annoy his mother (Though the screams made things quite tiresome).

Image

Vanished Grin

She looks around with pleading eyes

Yet, none look at her for a thrice

She cries out for the world to hear

All she receives is a deaf ear.

 

Locked within her four solid walls

She waits in vain for returned calls

She writhes around and cuts her skin

And hurls her sick into the bin.

 

She never thought, but yet it seems,

The world would not accept her dreams.

Face in the mirror

Where’s the beauty in that

face in the reflection?

Others are near perfect.

why am I imperfection?

 

Maybe its true, that I

wasn’t meant to be born.

That is what they all say,

they look at me with scorn.

 

Beauty might be skin deep

but I wish I had some

It’s hard to be wistful

It’s harder to keep mum.

 

I do not want glamour

my face put on a screen-

Just somewhere to belong

and not be so obscene.

 

She looks like a goddess,

has reason to be vain.

Me on the other hand?

I am not even plain.

Lifeless fear

I walked past a morgue today.

Pictures of gore and pain graced my mind.

I stared at the bolted door

Fascinated.

I let my mind wander free

And was possessed by the terrifying thought

Of one day finding you encased

by its sterile walls.

I cannot give you up

I need your optimism in my life

I can’t give you in

to the gods in heaven

that you’re so fond of believing in.

But it’s not in my hands

To hold back a soul

Whose time has expired.

I wonder if I might break

If I see your bod go up in flames.

Or if I might be overjoyed

That sorrow can no more

Imprison you in his skeleton fist.

Words Cut

Harsh words –

They draw crimson,

And they push you into a ravine

Of sordid self loath.

 

They make – forget

Little cheers and ecstasies

Till festering wounds

Become your only vice,

And a happy world

Is naught more than make – believe.

 

The sun shines oft and sure

Yet icicles form

Inside your entrails

Making you writhe in agony.

 

Golden smiles are all around

You plaster one on to mirror them all

But yours, my love, shines far fairer

For underneath it

Burns a pyre of despair

.Hurt