I got a little bored today waiting for my ride to arrive for my badminton tournament in Smithers. Anyways, I decided to spit this little gem out. I hope you likes it, msg me with your comments 
He Always Was a Funny Boy
Andrew Benson
At first, he trod softly, his visage that of a pilgrim taking his first steps into the house of his god. Certainly, the air was cold, a bitter reminder of how weak and mortal his body was... but that mattered not; not on this night, and not in this place. Despite his continual visitations here (for the ground, the trees, they were as familiar to him as the unfulfillment that characterized his waking hours), each time he came, it possessed all the same beauty about it as it had when he first accidentaly happened upon this secret place, hidden deep within the manicured prison of suburbia. To descibe, it was a simple place (to those who live untouched by the beauty of nature, at least): a few sickly pines, a stump, and a steep drop going into woods, and, soon past those woods, the city, his world. That which was his world was neon and orange streetlights, pavement and sidewalk; a bland afterlife, carrying in it a dead, stillborn harmony. Sitting upon a knuckled stump, he looked over the town, its lights shimmering: cheap jeweley on an old whore. He was filled with awe, with a sense of wonder and beauty incomparable to anything except the greatest heights of religious esctacy. Here, with wood and soil and delicious greenness, nothing mattered.
The night air became colder, turning his breath into spectres, and causing his flesh to make its reminders of frailty all the much more insistent; he ignored, the rapture more addictive than any brought about by Man's bastard chemistry-children. He felt beautiful: it was not that he himself was beautiful, but that he held beauty against him; he was not the poem, but the paper the poem was written on, and the pen that wrote it. Hundrerds of feet above the city, in this copse of illish trees secreted away in a residential purgatory, he dreamed, wide awake.
The police would find his body the next day, long after the sun had risen. His blue-fleshed and pale leavings would beg many questions, but all the neighbours really knew it was drugs. He always was a funny boy, they'd whisper...
He Always Was a Funny Boy
Andrew Benson
At first, he trod softly, his visage that of a pilgrim taking his first steps into the house of his god. Certainly, the air was cold, a bitter reminder of how weak and mortal his body was... but that mattered not; not on this night, and not in this place. Despite his continual visitations here (for the ground, the trees, they were as familiar to him as the unfulfillment that characterized his waking hours), each time he came, it possessed all the same beauty about it as it had when he first accidentaly happened upon this secret place, hidden deep within the manicured prison of suburbia. To descibe, it was a simple place (to those who live untouched by the beauty of nature, at least): a few sickly pines, a stump, and a steep drop going into woods, and, soon past those woods, the city, his world. That which was his world was neon and orange streetlights, pavement and sidewalk; a bland afterlife, carrying in it a dead, stillborn harmony. Sitting upon a knuckled stump, he looked over the town, its lights shimmering: cheap jeweley on an old whore. He was filled with awe, with a sense of wonder and beauty incomparable to anything except the greatest heights of religious esctacy. Here, with wood and soil and delicious greenness, nothing mattered.
The night air became colder, turning his breath into spectres, and causing his flesh to make its reminders of frailty all the much more insistent; he ignored, the rapture more addictive than any brought about by Man's bastard chemistry-children. He felt beautiful: it was not that he himself was beautiful, but that he held beauty against him; he was not the poem, but the paper the poem was written on, and the pen that wrote it. Hundrerds of feet above the city, in this copse of illish trees secreted away in a residential purgatory, he dreamed, wide awake.
The police would find his body the next day, long after the sun had risen. His blue-fleshed and pale leavings would beg many questions, but all the neighbours really knew it was drugs. He always was a funny boy, they'd whisper...
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