This world falls apart in my hands,

with the beating of my heart

and the turning of the sun

my life is burning to ashes

and I’m watching it go.

I need something more then blue skies

on a cloudy day

I need something more then anything

this world could give,

and if I should die before my time

then take me away.

This worlds full of lies

and I’m out of time

to make a change.

Time loses it's grip on reality 

between three and five am.

Your mind is in a state of fragility,

on the edge of madness.

Though this is my interpretation,

you no doubt see the mystery

in a time where life is on probation

and stopped from experience.

My friend the insomniac says time

ceases to exist after the first night. 

Where you're the centre of a victimless crime,

and Father Time's corps is back at four am.

And there reality goes, skylarking of

into the Freudian part of your mind.

A rest is all it needs to shove

it back in place with time.

This is where I rest my head, 

my friend may not do the same.

for me reality grips time in bed 

as the mind wakes.

For my friend, who knows,

has reality ever been the same?

He sleeps more then he shows,

     (three hours at most)

but reality eludes him,

as time comes again with the dawning 

sun and its precise ticks. 

While I wake with firm grip on early morning,

my friend falls through to eternal three am. 

In a chair a boy sits

and ponders his existence,

not knowing where he fits

in a cosmos of atoms and stars,

     with his wits without him.

Head in the clouds

and heart in a trap,

still alone in the crowds

that ask him why.

     Why do you exist here an now?

     Why is your soul so still?

     You walk by un-helping, how?

Yet this boy sits, and knows

there is nothing he can do

to change the world or it's woes,

despite the 'deep thoughts' that

he posts on prose. 

Authors Note: This is a practice for an application test to a Bachelor of Fine Arts Screenwriting course, it had to be 800 words using the concept 'Stolen life' and had to keep screenwriting in mind. If anyone could give feedback that would be much appreciated!

The renegade grim reaper runs through the dark city, cars pass by as he zips down the street. His hood stoops low over his eyes. Held tight to his chest is a glowing bottle that shines through his clutches, seeming to be the brightest object in the dark streets. The crowed go by unfazed. The reaper looks back, his withering face wide eyed as he sees his pursuers in suit down the street. The reaper doubles his pace, dashing across the street and down an alleyway, his pursuers unable to spot him. The reaper stops to catch his breath, holding the bottle tight with one hand and leaning against a wall he pulls his hood off, revealing a ghost-like face. The bottle continues it’s luminescent glow, his expression is grave.

“You sure gave them the slip Mr Reaper” said the Glowing bottle, it’s hallowing voice emanating with sarcasm.

“Well you can thank me later” He replies, holding the soul to eye level.

“Why should I thank you? You stole me from the soul bank, I was finally going to be at piece you prick!” the soul shouts, and the reaper looks away, guilt written on his face.

“Souls shouldn’t wait to be free” he looked back “You’re better off out, they were-“ he is cut off abruptly as the pursuers charge down the ally entrance.

“Stop by the order of The Grim! You’re under arrest!” shrieked the tall one, long limbs lifting to point a bony finger at them.

“Help help, he’s kidnapping me!” Shouted the soul.

“I’m not kidnapping you ” replied the reaper as he blundered through the ally, the pursuers hot on his heals. The chase was halted as the reaper came upon a fence, blocking the path. The reaper looked down at the glowing bottle and the high gate beside him.

“Sorry about this” He shouts, and before the soul can reply it is being tossed over to a nearby bin. The bottle lands with a thud, unbroken, and the reaper begins to climb over as the Grim Officers reach the gate.

“Stop at once!” shouted the shorter of the two. The reaper scrambles over and grabs the bottle just as they reach the gate and begin to climb. However the reaper and the soul are gone before they drop down. Out of the ally he runs, the life of another stolen into his hands.

“Where to now genius” whispered the soul, annoyance thick in their voice.

“I’m taking you to the afterlife, where else” The reaper looks down the street, searching for something out of sight and begins to jog down the path.

“What? But you just stole me from the afterlife in the soul bank” The reaper paused, stopped in his tracks, face wilting.

“That reached hell is not the afterlife” He looked down at the bottle, gripping it tighter  “That was purgatory, souls go there to be judged” He turned away from the bottle, beginning to jog down the street again.

“And then they go to heaven or hell, yeah I know what purgatory is” The reaper slows at this, the bottle waits.

“No, they sit on a shelf for millennia and wait to be processed by a bunch of bureaucratic Reapers. The good from the bad and all that”.

“They can’t just sort people like that, we have our own sins”.

“That’s exactly why I took you” the reaper replies, unchanging.

“But then how do you decide? You don’t know what I have done” The reaper paused again, stopping in his tracks. He lifts the bottle to eye level, checking the street before gazing intently at the soul.

“I know when you were young you stole an apple, and that you felt guilty, but you ate it anyway” he pauses again, leaning closer “I know that you drank alcohol at age 16 with your friends, I know that you hurt your friend, I know that you have done the most basic of sins and I know that no one who has loved and lived so fully should ever go to hell”

“Or wait for eternity in purgatory” replies the soul. They pause for a moment on the dark street the reaper breaths and the soul waits.

“Exactly” they began to walk again, the reaper holding the bottle to his chest, no longer in a hurry.

“So um, how are we actually going there?”

“Oh sorry. The cemetery entrance is just up ahead” The reaper indicates to a cemetery not far away, as they walk up the sun rises.

“Well… thank you” says the bottle as the reaper places it on the ground.

“Enjoy your stay” replies the reaper, light engulfs them as they enter that great beyond. The life was stolen, then the life was give, and now the life walks freely in it’s own direction. 

Innocent guilt of a minor mistake

crumbles the conscience 

and leaves remorse in its wake

wile you continue cautious 

of every word you say.

careful not to repeat 

the transgressions you lay

against friends you mistreat.

A word misspoken

trustes broken

leave you heartbroken

and apologies soft spoken.

They want you to be good,

better then good, up there

with the greats. But you never stood

a chance. Don’t worry its all fare.

You need to write with passion,

let is flow through you,

but you must write in their fashion,

tailoring to the teachers overview.

Force yourself through hell,

write the right way.

Maybe you’ll do well,

you need that fucking A.

The stories that you create

could never reach there glory,

because you must keep up to date

with the new line of story.

As poets reign down words of wisdom

you can help but feel a fool,

you have no grand vision,

writing for teachers in private school.