Limbo I am not here. I never have been. I don't exist. My being is transparent. My presence acknowledged. My heart, stilled from being alone. No one can see me. No one can hear me. No one can feel me. Limbo is agony. The eternal wait, no way out by dying or way of contact. I have been here for centuries, but I could reappear several seconds after my departure. I am alive, believe me. So why am I here? Floating and drifting amongst the infinite white. Do I have purpose? Do I have meaning? Am I of significance? The thing is #life is your limbo unless you brave that first step forwards.

Veil Maybe behind the veil lies something deeper. Perhaps the echoes of behind or the screams of the living. That however is not the case. Behind the veil, traditionally lies the bride. The bride of whom I wonder. Deaths scaly claw may brush against the scratchy fabric. Maybe satans boiling wife. The veil may hide the corpse of one true beauty. Underneath the veil lies something evil. Maybe so pure they turned to rot. I think behind the veil in untouchable. But then I could be wrong so maybe not.

Capture Ever felt so scared by someone you couldn't move. Pain stabbed at my ribs. You know that feeling that you need to run but you cant. Bruises erupted on my arms and legs. When you body just won't listen to you no matter how hard or loudly you scream at it. A bone snapped. You cry and cry but you just won't run. A knife hilt at my throat. You scream so loudly people are trying to help you but you wont stop calling. Blood splatters the floor. I wish thats what I felt, but I still listened and obeyed. I killed her …

Where's My Angel? Raindrops slid across the surface of the glass. They raced along the cool edge of the building before dangling over the edge and falling. Grey is a common colour to a British person. Its that everyday bully that stomps on your umbrella, the blurs of an iPhone screen. London, is a busy place. You get use to the rush hour, you are accustomed to the endless cheap inside out umbrellas. In fact the scurry of the city doesn't faze you. There's The Shard and The endless chines of big ben. The landmarks that excite tourists but just blend in to the natives. You are constantly pushed shoved and three quid away from the cab fare. Not to mention there is nowhere to pee for miles. Where's the upside? We don't eat scones with the queen or talk like we have pencils up our noses. Gosh if you visited the back end of Hackney or Tottenham. Our story begins in east London, in the midst of a stereotypical secondary school : renovated from an older building. The students were armed with adidas bags, nike trainers, short skirts and snapbacks. Not to mention the kids with the P.E bag filled with football boots. A loud shrill drone echoed in different pitches throughout the school depending on what part if the building the bell was placed in. The pupils trailed along to there respective tutor groups. One year group in the assembly hall waiting for the teacher to stop coughing and give the assembly. Class 8R was silent as the terrifying substitute cowboy showdown stared at the 7 boys walking in 6 minutes late with lies of mentoring fresh on there tongues. Suddenly, a strange woman with hair as bold as blood and skin as fair as ivory, burst through the door panting and a bleeding gash at her left arm. "I need to find a girl named Angel" she screamed as the classroom sat slack jawed as they waited for the scene in front of them to unfold.

Rage No one told me to stop. No one told me to turn back. They knew I was at my limit. I couldn't help but smirk as the younger gazed after me in confusion. Obviously new to this school, they hadn't seen a breakdown. Idiots. Never seen a psychopath before? Never seen someone so broken they couldn't breathe? Never seen someone so torn their fists pummelled the wall until blood shed? Whatever. My skin feels too hot to care. I want to damage something. But I can't hurt anyone. So I walk out of school and into the back alley around the outside. Pain ricochetted through my bones as the raw and blood coated flesh slammed into the concrete. Sweat dribbled down my throat and low shudders jolted through me as I steadily imprinted my anger into the rocks. Maybe the fist marks would fossilise over the years and be used as guidelines for the future generation so they can point out the murderers. Lets face it, thats what I will end up as, a criminal. I'll just lose control and kill someone like before. Then I will be stuck somewhere safer for society, somewhere where I am not a threat. Part of me just wants to scratch at the surface of today until it cries out the bad times. Even in my thoughts I am a monster.