these-tears-of-blood-i-weep

Creepypasta #584: Mary Had A Little Lamb

Story length: Short

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

She brought her lamb to school one day;
The kids let out loud jeers.
The children took her lamb away
And Mary choked on tears.

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was red with blood.
She took its little body home
And swore she’d hurt them good.

Mary knew that lambsblood called
Things ancient, hidden, and deep.
As Mary painted signs of old,
Never did she weep.

Mary had a little lamb;
It made her something scary.
Now I dare you, look in a mirror
And whisper “bloody Mary.”

Credits to: eightyeightkate

Imagine what it must be like to be born in the bosom of a country that’s wanted you dead since before you showed up. That wanted your entire family dead but for their labor. That wiped away all that your family was before their ancestral blood was dragged across an unimaginably hostile sea.

I don’t have any more tears left to cry. They were spilled out by my weeping foremothers time and time again, long before I arrived. Only the Atlantic is large enough to hold them.

Maybe it hurts because after everything I have sacrificed, he can still look me in the eyes and tell me that he doesn’t think I love him. If he could only have been there as I weeped underneath stuffy covers, struggling to breathe, but nothing compared to the pain of his words. If only he could have seen the way I ran to him. Worn down shoes bouncing off the pavement, only to ensure he was okay. If he only knew how often I disregard everything I thought I knew to be with him. If only he knew I have carved him into my soul, through blood and tears. If only he knew. Then he would never be able to look into my eyes, tears threatening to to overflow and cascade down my face, and tell me that he thought I didn’t love him.
the war

“Some days I launch from a catapult toward the beast of my pain and fear. I fly at its face, joyously gouging its eyes with my thumbs. I take greedy gulps as I tear its throat with my teeth and I shred its body until it lies in messy ribbons at my feet. I am triumphant.

Other days, there is no fight. My tender skin is useless and my arms are frozen at my sides. My bones crack like gunshots, the blood I taste is my own. I fall. The part of me that wants to kill me stands on my chest, squeezing everything but grief from my body. I hope God hears the praying of my heart because my lips have no movement and my mind has left words behind in the haze. It leaves me broken. I curl and weep.

I lie for a long, long, long time. Tears dry into salty tracks and limbs mend into new shapes. Scars weave permanent stories across my wrists. When at last I can move, I heave myself to my knees. That is as far as I can manage.

This, too, is triumph.

Victory is not lost in the falling, but found in the rising again.”

8

Mads Mikkelsen as Le Chiffre in Casino Royale (2006)

↳”The weeping blood is a real disease. It is rare, but it’s like high blood pressure in certain situations will make people start bleeding from their nose, and occasionally through their eyes, which is kind of scary. I had to wear a contact to make it look like I was blind in one eye and during breaks they would place tiny drops of fake blood near my tear duct so I could blink it out. It was comfortable to wear, but what was annoying was that I lost my sense of depth because I was only using one eye. So I became the most clumsy villain in history. I would stumble and keep knocking things down. Thank God for editors!”

What “we’re pregnant” means: I support my wife, and I am going to be there for her as much as if I was the one personally carrying the child.

What “we’re pregnant” does not mean: I’m trying to take credit for my wife’s work.

Now if I ever have to see that stupid Mila Kunis post on my dash again I’m going to weep tears of blood.

he is sunshine incarnate,
a constellation brought to life.
when he laughs, the world laughs with him
when he weeps, his tears spark strife.

his tongue is tipped with honey
his skin glazed with liquid gold,
but when he bleeds–and oh, he bleeds–
his blood is red like any other’s.

and how easy it is to see such a boy
and doubt he is not some poet’s dream,
how simple to see his smile
and mistake it for the sunrise.

but there are demons in this world, you see,
specters that seek to destroy the light
and who in the world is more brilliant than he?
what distant star has ever shined as bright?

so bind yourself to him, in blood and in soul,
breathe life into his lungs as if for your own
because no monster is as fearsome
as a world deprived of his grace,
no beast could be as brutal
as a day without his heartbeat–
for he is love and laughter and goodness untainted,
the dawn that rises radiantly
over every dark and daunting night.

—  prince of joy and starlight, Amrita C.
Drogon as The Stallion Who Mounts The World

The full prophecy:

“As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name.” “The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.”

Finally the crone opened her eye and lifted her arms. “I have seen his face, and heard the thunder of his hooves,” she proclaimed in a thin, wavery voice.

The thunder of his hooves, sounds familiar:

His wings stretched twenty feet from tip to tip, black as jet. He flapped them once as he swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. - describing Drogon, ADWD ch. 52


As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass.

Swift as the wind he rides. This can be interpreted as he rides fast like the wind, OR that he is literally riding the wind, aka flying.

Now, about getting a great khalasar to lead:

Vaes Dothrak is large enough to house every man of every khalasar, should all the khals return to the Mother at once. The crones have prophesied that one day that will come to pass, and so Vaes Dothrak must be ready to embrace all its children.”

At the end of ADWD, Dany meets the khalasar lead by Khal Jhaqo. I think she’s going to end up uniting all of the Dothraki at Vaes Dothrak. There’s a lot of mother imagery tied in there, which fits Dany’s storyline: the sacred mountain Mother of the Mountains, a lake Dany bathed in called the Womb of the World. Plus GRRM just said this in an interview about The Winds of Winter: “ Dothraki will return to the narrative “in a big way” ”. If Dany does unite the Dothraki, you can bet she’ll be leading them with Drogon. Dothraki follow strength, they abandoned Dany when Drogo died so they don’t fear Dany herself, but now with Drogon as her “stallion”, he has enough power for all Dothraki, “men without number”, to follow behind his lead. 

Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name.”

Trembling and tearing at your flesh from terror sounds like an extreme reaction, but makes more sense when it’s from a dragon is coming at you rather than a person. “Stone tents” such as Harrenhal, where Harren and his whole family line were roasted alive in a tower by Balerion, and the extreme heat of dragonfire charred the caste to near ruins. Also, Drogon has been called Balerion reborn, Balerion the Black Dread, certainly people feared his name.

The old woman trembled and looked at Dany almost as if she were afraid.

Now, this one eyed crone is the oldest of the dosh khaleen, who are all former khaleesi’s. They’re strong, badass ladies, and I’m sure she has seen some savage things in her time. So for her to be scared and trembling, it must have been something exceptionally frightening to rattle her.

The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.”

Wings shadowed her fever dreams. / but suddenly the stars were gone, and across the blue sky swept the great wings, and the world took flame.  /  She could feel the heat inside her, a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud … he smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash.

Firstly, I interpreted “the prince is riding” as “he’s coming, he’s on his way.” This fever dream takes place one chapter before the hatching of the dragons. I feel like the dream is foreshadowing the dragons getting closer, being born.

When Dany goes into the funeral pyre, she knows “only death can pay for life”. I think it makes sense that Rhaego’s life was given to bring Drogon, the real Stallion.

(credit to this post for reference x )

Mary had a Little Lamb

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

She brought her lamb to school one day;
The kids let out loud jeers.
The children took her lamb away
And Mary choked on tears.

Mary took the lamb back home
Its fleece was red with blood.
She held onto its broken bone
And swore she’d hurt them good.

Mary knew that lambsblood called
Things ancient, hidden, and deep.
As Mary painted signs of old,
Never again would she weep.

Mary had a little lamb;
It made her something scary.
Now I dare you, look in a mirror
And whisper “bloody Mary.”

original

Night Terrors

I always hated dreaming.

It was always the same dream. My bedroom, complete darkness, and a red, vicious demon, tearing at my flesh and breaking my bones. Licking my blood from its claws and laughing. I can’t fight back. I can only weep silent tears as it patches me back together, a long, cruel needle and black thread, and cackles off into the night. In the morning, I’m sore, and can always feel right where it did its dark deeds.

My friends and I talk about our nightmares. Being lost in a forest. Drowning in a sinking ship. Embarrassing prom stories. I shared mine, once. Everyone gave me sympathy, patted my shoulder, offered condolences on how awful it was.

The next time it came up, everyone had something different. Chased by wolves. Huge, howling storms. Mass shootings. When I said my dreams hadn’t changed, they were concerned. Pills were offered. They promised I wouldn’t have any dreams.

It didn’t help.

The last time we talked about it, I didn’t say anything. My dreams still hadn’t changed. Instead I listened to the others talk about theirs, and how nice they could be sometimes.

Dreams are awful. I wonder what they would be like if I could fall asleep.

Depression taunts you
Until spines begin to shatter
Backs snap under the intensity
A walk becomes a stagger

Depression waits until one
Is on the cusp of sweet sleep
It screams obscenities between your ears
A lone tear becomes a weep

Depression suffocates you
In a room overflowing with friends
Silently strangling until you fantasize
About the ways to make life end

Depression clutches your throat
Murmurs “You deserve to feel such pain”
One draws blood in greater volumes
Just to feel something again

Depression threatens “You’ll never recover”
Words I know to be all too true
I stare at white washed walls contemplating suicide
Until skies turn from black to blue

Yet nobody observes this part of me
Where depression dismantles my mind
It’s adrift amidst the fake smiles
And the insistence that “I'm fine.”

—  if only they knew how I truly felt, they’d understand why I rue the cards i’ve been dealt // A.S

wild eyed cassandra
stands, on the very precipice
of burning Troy, flames rising
licking hungrily at her skirts.
she has no screams left.

“I told you so.”
apollo’s face flickers in
front of her eyes:
she is seeing visions in the fire.
“no one will believe you.”

it is not for lack of trying-
she tried, she truly did
weeping salty tears
as the visions twisted
and tormented her swollen eyes

she remembers helenus,
sweet foolish twin-brother
who turned his eyes away
refused to open his ears
to the darkening visions

“you are jealous of
helen. she is of our blood now,
and we will win the war.”
they told her, her 50 brothers
who went to war never to return.

she does not scream
when the greeks pick her up
she has none left, her soul is weary
a block of icy ivory
burning inside with Troy

they carry her past helen,
who is stone-faced
and oh so cruelly lovely

this is she whom men today have died.

"I forgive you, Helen.”
she sends silently,
their eyes meeting,
both haunted with the
flames of burning Troy

“We are all victims of
the pride of foolish men.
And those proud gods
who treat us
as mere playthings.”

and so, cassandra,
wild eyed and burning
from within
watches Troy burn
and does not shed a tear.

—  a fallen prophetess (k.a)
You have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose then, your heart has been weeping blood?
—  Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Mary had a little lamb

credit to- eightyeightkate

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.


She brought her lamb to school one day;
The kids let out loud jeers.
The children took her lamb away
And Mary choked on tears.


Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was red with blood.
She took its little body home
And swore she’d hurt them good.


Mary knew that lambsblood called
Things ancient, hidden, and deep.
As Mary painted signs of old,
Never did she weep.


Mary had a little lamb;
It made her something scary.
Now I dare you, look in a mirror
And whisper “bloody Mary.”

The poets are dead.
The airwaves are weeping, with blood-mingled tears they lament the loss.
Too long they endured the abuse and the beatings.
There is no fight left.

None of us should die with unbroken knuckles,
so keep punching hard enough to break the hands you held hope with.
Bones crack so easily.
But stop reaching too far for a while and they will heal,
a little stronger every time.
And they might ache a little when it’s cold,
but that ache will serve as a reminder that pain will never leave you,
it just gets a little easier to handle every day.

I lost myself in my own legend,
and forgot how to write poetry.
I forgot how to let words drip from my fingers and left blank page after blank page.
Pretend I’m written in invisible ink.
I am a pregnant pause, a person in waiting.
I am a living, breathing hiatus.
But how can I hate these hands that ache to hold her?
How can I berate these broken knuckles for not knowing how to explain the pain they feel?
How can I hope to heal when my heart is homesick?

Tell me my wrists don’t need to be so weak.
Tell me my blood tastes like wine and you hear music when I speak.
Tell me I’m still sweet.

As long as I can feel my fingers fold and my fists clench
I know I can always fight my way out of the abyss.

Those heat-tempered bones, that whisky-tempered soul.
The world will be a safer place when men are made of steel and can’t be broke.
Tell me the tales of your tears.
Tell me the story of your scars.

Inflate your tired lungs,
drag the last breath from your chest,
and scream the words to your favourite song one last time before you rest.

—  giraffevaderThe poets are dead, long live the poets.
An Angry Heart.

There is anger in your heart,
and t’is plain for all to see,
the anger you are feeling,
is coming straight at me.

There are teardrops in your eyes,
and you will not let them flow,
the tears that you wont weep;
they are tears for me, I know.

There’s a coldness to your touch,
and the words you say are old,
they make me freeze inside,
and they make my blood run cold.

There’s a  sharpness to your look,
and it splits this love of ours,
dark clouds in our minds,
and a chill in summer showers.

Now t’is time for you to leave,
and your train is hissing steam,
your leaving me is cold,
my life, a shattered dream.

Ambrose Harte
Scattered Thoughts

I Know - Bucky

Requested by anon
(Not my gif)

The screaming, the yelling, the crying. The anguish all around you and there was nothing you could do. Nothing you could do to help them, any of them.

The child screaming for her dad, the mother screaming at her teenage son to come back, the old man holding a woman in his arms and weeping, her face stained with blood like his was with tears.

You stumbled around, trying to grasp a hold of the situation, of what had happened. 

You saw a man run from the building that had exploded, his red hoodie falling off his shoulders and his lips parted as he gasped for breath. Running over to him, unsure why, unsure what it would do but still you ran.

And then your mouth fell open when you saw his face. A cut along his cheek bone, his eyes full of regret and wet with tears. His face which was painfully familiar.

You stumbled back, trying to take a breath, to take a moment. But he’d seen you and something seemed to click inside him, he knew you too.

“Wait!” He yelled, stretching out an arm to you as you ran, your breath in ragged gasps, your boots slapping on the concrete as you moved as fast as you could away and you heard his behind you.

“I never meant to hurt you!”

Faster.

“I’m sorry!”

Stop.

“That’s not going to get my leg back properly is it?” You screamed back. And he must have seen the rage on your features as you turned for his lips turned into a frown and his eyes showed such pity as he glanced down at your leg in it’s brace from when he’d shot you in the leg only a few years ago.

“I’m really sorry. I never wanted to shoot you.” 

“Well, you did.” 

“I know.” He hung his head and you almost felt bad, but he’d caused you this pain, he’d caused you to spend all those days in hospital and then weeks in physiotherapy trying to get your knee fixed.

“I know. That explosion was my fault too. Everything’s my fault!” He screamed, pulling at his hair, hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

“People are injured!” You screamed back, pointing at the building. “Help them!”

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes locked on yours.

“Please.”

And then he ran back, back into the burning apartment, pulling people from under beds and desks, bodies and the injured, pulling them out to lay on the road, in a bitter sweet sleep.

You checked who was alive, helping the injured stay calm, doing your best with your leg.

After an hour when the ambulances had taken the injured away and the dead were covered in sheets and the sun had begun to drop, you sat on the bench on the pavement and he came to sit beside you.

“Thank you.” He said.

“For what?”

“Getting me to help. And helping me.”

“That doesn’t redeem you, you know.” you said bitterly.

“I know. But now I know what I have to do with my life.”

“That’s great.”

He turned to you, “I’m Bucky.”

You laughed slightly, “(Y/n).”

“I know.” He whispered, “I found out about you when I… left. When I was on my own. I found out about everyone.”

“So there’s not just me.” You sighed.

“I’m really sorry.”

“This may not have been all to your free will, what you did to me and the others, maybe we got in the way, but you’ve gone too far to take it back with an apology.” You said, almost regretting it after.

“I know.” He whispered.


It is this is and this. 
The tide washes crimson, the flood of your fury washed in iron,
and oh, my lover, how the color molds to fit you.
Though it should not.

Hands on my face rise in the morning to wield death.
I thought, then, that you could not, would not kill,
for your hands loved me so tenderly.

Blood on your face, tangled in your hair,
when did crimson begin to suit you so well?
You grin like a wolf, then, and I am caged in it.
I am breathless as I beg for you to take me, those hands
wearing me down until I feel as if I am raw.

My smile is a gaping wound, crimson lashed on brown,
the tide licking my feet like a hungry dog
as tears dry with salt. 

I wept for you. 
I will always weep for you, my love.

Turn over to me.
I will brush your wings, shine your halo,
hold your feet as you are lifted to Heaven.

And when you ascend, I will kneel until you return.
Until I bleed.
As I always have.

“Red Tide” (E.B.)