story one

I long to not write,not to speak but to be read,to be heard. There are voices in the silent air,bouncing off concrete walls and assimilating into more thin air. There are voices everywhere. Where are the listeners? The absorbers? The end of the road for them voices. They started out at as noises but the boistrous time and the longing turned them into wails of the pure. Sit down sometimes,and listen to them. The most fascinating of the stories to tell, the longest conversations to be made. They will never let you feel alone or for their record , unheard of. 

But don't listen to them too well. Sometimes they cast spells,caress wounds with poison and fill our hearts up with acidic tears. They stab you with screams and make you screech. These voices have seen a lot, they didnt collide with the walls but the knives . 

One such voice is mine. I let it out unaware of how its heard by you. When it reaches you let me know if you heard tales of drawing out the blood or a cry of drawing on it !