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Ioana-Parascheva Miron, 15 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Nottingham, UK. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.

          Skin Resembles A Flower
                       
How had he risen to fame? 
A complicated man, never guilty, secretly to blame.
Weeps echoed under the crowd glancing his way,
His presence ethereal, his eyes tired and grey. 
He was an impossible sight to behold,
Massively adored, heartless and cold.

Each night he preyed on a victim,
Seeking to find one who would contradict him.
A tenebrous room sheltered his secrets,
Where he hid unfathomable things with no regrets. 
From his anger and frustration rose a creature
With repulsive and loathsome features.
His face was mottled with scabs and cuts,
A gash in his stomach, spitting out his guts.
His skin clung to his bones, however their outline was dull,
While thick blood vessels bulged from his skull.
Burst veins ambushed his eyes,
Reddening their dark disguise.
His teeth sunk gluttonously into bitter skin,
The bruise left after was wide and thin.

He was only a known actor, capable of shifting,
His personality changed per minute, a sight which was uplifting.
It deceived many, his fame lacking fairness or reason,
People enjoyed his presence from season to season.
For certain roles he could become the creature threatening to slip out,
His aggressiveness sometimes sparked some doubt.
The audience feared he was too intense, 
Some reactions caused the atmosphere to become dense.

After his performance ended,
He left the stage, his hastiness unintended.
A few lingered, desperate to catch his attention,
He would smirk at their blindness to his intention.
Cruelty marred his face, they paid no mind,
Neglecting the way he pretended to be kind.
He lured the naive individuals downstairs
And never earned any additional glares
From those he did not choose,
They had already deciphered his clues.
The audience was indifferent to the discovery,
Keeping his secret until the victim’s recovery.
It was all a lie – no one saw the people he took again.

One case which happened recently, 
Affected a girl who was thought to think decently.
She followed him below the stage,
Realising something  beyond her age.
There was no use in attempting to escape, 
Her resolve crushed under his heel like a grape.
He pushed her to the wall, 
Her innocence fading, making her skin crawl.
She watched him deform into the demon he truly was.
He was exposed to her, unconsciously vulnerable to his flaws.
Her ability to speak ceased to exist as he tore her mouth apart,
A protest forever caught in the air around them, screamed from her heart.
Blood pooled down, its hotness scalding him with a fresh sin.
He touched her faint neck, dragging his nails across with a mad grin.
Her eyes widened in surprise as he stepped away,
A sigh of relief echoing from the words she could not say.
Before she could react, her false hope shattered,
He lunged at her skin, wine-coloured fluid spattered
All over the walls around them, delighting his gruesome eyes.
In the corner left of her consciousness, she wished she had seen through his lies.
Her ability to feel him around her blurred,
Not a single sound he made could be heard.
He gripped her impotent body, spreading her skin apart with his teeth,
To him it resembled a flower, valuable for its core, not the leaf.
When he found her veins, he cut them open with a glance,
They were his only romance.

Minutes later her body was disposed of, his greed satiated,
Would people wonder why he was continuously celebrated?
He had taken a life, an ordinary thought in his feral mind. 
It was complicated to understand the intricate way he was designed.
The next day he emerged mentally unscathed, 
None of the guilt normally felt was engraved
In his eyes. There was a satisfaction which gleamed
Beneath his pupils, it was as if he had dreamed.
A new audience faced him, money cast his way.
He smiled, a sinister light in his eyes, pleased with his pay.
Playing his part, he started over, searching their eager eyes,
Satisfied to hear excited cries.
He slowly arranged a target in his sharp mind,
His corrupt heart was sly and it aligned
With his thoughts and desires, 
His eyes smouldered with two separate fires.
Thought of as a “common” man
He constantly created a vile but simple plan.

His nature was undeveloped, his immoral cannibalism known only to his prey,
He chose the vulnerable and defenceless, his objective proved clear as day.
The melancholy he felt projected his actions,
It immensely altered his interactions.
He was on his own,
Alone.


      Words Have Drowned Me

Shelf after shelf, image after image,
I am seen yet not picked up.
Eyes gaze over,
Although they also choose another cover.
I cannot see what’s wrong
Are my colours not as strong?
Or do people misunderstand
The beauty of a delicate hand?

When I’m sitting in solitude
I am almost never viewed.
One pair of mistaken eyes,
A gaze filled with nothing wise
Gazed and stared,
Unprepared.
My story is not what they expect,
That’s why it receives no respect.
Scanning the page you realise
Now you can’t believe your eyes.
I’ve been sitting there for so long,
I’m starting to think I don’t belong.
How can this world fully appreciate the forgotten,
If they don’t feel the same way?
I have stayed on this shelf,
Untouched, by myself.
Feeling fictional tears
Being added to my fears.

I was written by someone,
Who felt the same pain.
But I felt born before that hand created my tale,
I was in the roots of his heart, which was pale
Sickened by a disease no one could cure,
He would always feel so unsure.
His talent was made of gold,
Even though I never got sold.
In the end, this man died,
No one ever cared or cried.

How could someone ever imagine
Dying because of something you never gave up?
His only happiness was drowning in smoke,
But it only made him choke.
His hands shook when he made my story,
Although I stand here without glory.
He wasted his energy on something no one will read,
They are all too blinded by their greed.
My story is one of grief,
Of a soul who never felt relief.
He was always tired
Until he got fired.
He learned to work harder,
But never got much farther.

He fell in love,
With a fragile girl.
He could barely afford to live,
So what was there to give?
Poverty was a disease,
Stole her from him with ease.
Then his heart began to darken
With a desire for something deadly.
His love for her was long forgotten
While his breath was short already.

One day in September,
He fell asleep in the dusky rain.
A man walked past him
And quietly whispered his name.
He was killed feeling no pain.
Although this is not the story I knew,
It is the one he wrote for you.


         Purity

Those pretty eyes,
Those eyes so pure,
They’re nothing like I’ve ever seen before.
How could I walk away?
I would regret that every day.

Two souls meant to be alone,
One although is more prone
To getting their mind messed up by the other,
Can we keep our eyes off each other?
I’m trying to clean all impurity,
It removes this false sense of security.
I have a soul that was once shy,
Purer than the bluest sky.
Now my thoughts are spilling out,
I’m touching the ground, waking my doubt.
You, however, may be sane, your purity still remains,
Surer than any blood in my veins.

When I run out of time, I look at you,
My world brightens, a world once blue.
I can’t get your image out of my head
So I end up crying about you instead.
You’re purer than I’ll ever be,
Which is why I can never be free.