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About Risquer

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    Hopeless Poetic
  • Birthday 07/07/1991

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    Poetry, Writing, Reading, Animals, Photography, Msn, Nature.
  1. The sky was bright and mystical as I sat in that back seat. The clouds overhead seemed to scream of his Majesty, and how great he was. How great was the day. It didn't feel great. Neither did I. My hands were shaking, and my eyes were weak. My mind buzzed with fear and exaustion at the same time, jumbled with millions of tiny beads, filled with insecurities and uncertainties. I swallowed hard as my mother looked back at me through the rear view mirror. I wasn't sure what she was thinking, but I would hate to find out. She had been mad last night. Not just mad, but mad at me. I wish I had understood why, but it seemed only because I had spoken up. As city lights came into view, I realised I had been holding my breath. I let it out slowly; shaking. The office was full of big blue doors, all light coloured, yet extremely menacing. The man took me in, and sat me down in a chair, promptly leaving afterwards. I took the chance to take a look around. Soft walls, like I was crazy or something. A camera, starring down at me. A box beside me, recording my voice, my breath, my every move. I no longer felt like a victim in the unstable, black chair. Alone and in the corner, until he returned. he closed the door, locking me in. I was locked in, stuck, away from anything, but him. Fear trickled inside of me. And I spoke clearly, even if my voice shook. Two hours trickled by, and repetition became a game. From detail unto detail unto detail, I bore myself to a small piece of plastic, hoping that It would jail away my fears. It did not. But perhaps it will jail away what created them.