~<span style="font-style: italic">Almost eighteen years of darkness and a void of sorrow, pain, suffering, and lack of love would turn anyone into a shell. Into a being who existed but did not live. All emotions smothered except for vivid memories of pain and confusion. One young man made himself numb and almost cold to a world in which he had no savior. As he sets out to traveling he meets many people but not a one takes time to look past the illusion of ice he has set up. In a new town he finds a club that lets you do verbal poetry. one night that he is on stage he is given a job due to how powerful his poetry was. Yet though he found a nitch in the world nobody has seen through the words to the truth he was trying to share.</span>~<br/><br/><a class="postlink" href="http://allstarme.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/josh-turner-3.jpg">[ img ]</a><br/>Name: Erik Nizoan<br/>Age: 19<br/>Race: Lycanthrope<br/>History: Too painful and cruel to discuss.<br/><br/>Erik walked through town after town. Meeting people who refused, or just couldn't, see past the lifeless icy exterior he had. Not that the interior had more life than the exterior...it just wasn't cold. He wasn't cold. He just came off that way. No...he had a painful past. A past that in order to survive he had to become numb. He still had a burn scar on his left hip. Whip scars riddled his back as pale white reminders of the lesson he learned growing up. The lesson of...love holds no ground in his life. A painful reminder of just how unimportant and worthless he was to his parents.<br/><br/>Broken bones were just part of the story. The mind games. The mental degrading. The emotional scars. It becomes too much to bare after awhile. So you become numb. You turn to ice to survive torture which you know deep down you don't deserve. Torture that started when you were just six months old. You become lifeless compared to others. A shell of a man. The shell of a man whose soul and life was smothered since an early age. It might seem strange to others but people like him never learned to smile. What was there to smile about when all you can vividly remember is pain?<br/><br/>These memories of his are what spurred him to write poetry in his head. To find meaning within the pain. Mind you this was far from an easy task to do. How can you find meaning for pain which you don't fully understand? The biggest question that could formulate in ones mind after being through what he had was only three letters long....why? Nobody ever helped him so a year and a half ago he ran off when they were sleeping. He'd finally gathered the strength and the courage to get himself free of his pain filled bird cage. A very small, cramped, and dark birdcage. His thoughts when left to himself, which was almost always, was painful and dark. Dark memories brought forth dark thoughts. It was hard to truly escape the past when you had no one who looked close enough for you to share it with them.<br/><br/>He walked aimlessly in a world in which he held no purpose. No reason for existing. He kept walking until he came to a place where he heard a bass sounding music emitting from the cracks in the door. He headed in that direction. The sign above the door said ~La Musa~.<span style="font-style: italic">What a strange name for a club...</span>He thought to himself. Opening the front door would be the first step he would take to finding a purpose in his life. He continued walking through a semi-dark hallway like path until he came to oak doors which seemed to be vibrating with the bass music. He opened the door and walked through that set of doors. Inside would be circular tables with chairs all around them. On the corner of a stage was a woman playing the violin family instrument which was giving off the bass sounding music.<br/><br/>He continued to let his gaze roam around the room. There on the other corner of the stage was a side that read ~Open Mike~. He wondered if that meant he could say some of his poetry. He figured it was worth a shot. He looked around until he spotted a man with a clipboard. "I'd like to say some of my poetry on stage." He said in a dead and empty voice. His eyes didn't even have a spark of life. Empty and soulless would be the best description. Icy would be what others would say. The man seemed to be put off by that. It didn't matter to Erik. He just wanted to speak on the mike. The man wasn't a kindred spirit so his personal thoughts on him didn't matter. He was a bit different to those he viewed as kindred spirits. When the man nodded and waved him on stage he headed over to the mike. Hearing the man say he needed to say who he was and what he was doing he spoke. "I'm Erik. I'm going to do poetry." He said in his lifeless voice. Words could hold more power to them then even some of the greatest deeds.<br/><br/>He held onto the mike stand for a moment. Putting himself into his poetry once more. As he let the memories overtake him in a somewhat positive way he began to speak.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #FF0000">Icy downpouring rain.<br/>A waterfall of solid pain.<br/>Torrents of emotions rollercoasting across a mental plain.<br/>How can one stay sane?<br/>Love is a part of a lions fang.<br/>Always bitter and filled with such tang.<br/>Ice creeps closer.<br/>Builds much stronger.<br/>A means of existance or a way of life.<br/>Only knowledge through much strife.<br/>Icy downpouring rain.<br/>A waterfall of solid pain.</span></div><br/><br/>Once he finished saying the poetry the room erupted into applause. He turned and walked off the stage. He began to head to the entrance when the man with the clipboard stopped him. "What?" He said in what would seem a cold tone. The man looked at him. "The boss wants to hire you. You would speak poetry every weak. We would pay you twenty per hour that you speak." Erik just looked at him. Was this some kind of sick joke? The man seemed serious but so did many things when all they were was veiled daggers to stab you in the back. He thought about it then nodded his head. "Alright." He said in his naturally lifeless voice. The man smiled. "Good. You start tomorrow night." Erik just nodded his head and walked out. Heading to a hotel and checked into a room.<br/><br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">~The week of nights later~</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>Erik was dressed in a black tank and a pair of blue jeans. A jean jacket was over his tank. He headed to the club. It was his first night "working". He didn't truly believe they were going to pay him. Until he got that first paycheck he would remain in doubt. People could lie more easily than they could utter a single word of truth. Such was the logic he had learned at an early age. Bittersweet happiness. False sense of security. Painful tragic memories. These things were what spurred his poetic mind. Gave it unlimited fuel from which to flame. He opened that set of oaken double doors. Walking past the threshold into the faintly and dimly lit club. Heading to the man with the clipboard. Waved onto stage and up onto it he went.<span style="font-style: italic">A lot of new faces tonight.</span>He thought to himself. Going to the mike and would begin to speak once more.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000"><div style="text-align: center;">A tidal wave of lies and deceit.<br/>Every word you utter is a blade in which you use on another to thus them defeat.<br/>The hand strikes harder and crueler than any weapon you could utter.<br/>Yet the pain they create causes thoughts to flutter.<br/>A torrent of words thrown that way.<br/>A whip of words used to darken the day.<br/>Razor sharp deeds.<br/>Bring horror and tears that you fail to heed.<br/>A burning flame.<br/>It whispers and runs wild and untamed.<br/>A tidal wave of lies and deceit.<br/>Every word you utter is a blade in which you use on another to thus them defeat.</div></span><br/><br/>He then would pause for another poem. Saying the one from the night before once more.<br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #FF0000">Icy downpouring rain.<br/>A waterfall of solid pain.<br/>Torrents of emotions rollercoasting across a mental plain.<br/>How can one stay sane?<br/>Love is a part of a lions fang.<br/>Always bitter and filled with such tang.<br/>Ice creeps closer.<br/>Builds much stronger.<br/>A means of existance or a way of life.<br/>Only knowledge through much strife.<br/>Icy downpouring rain.<br/>A waterfall of solid pain.</span></div><br/><br/>He would then walk off stage and head into the back. He would freshen up there and stay there until the hours had gone by. He had spoken poems for quite a long time. Once everyone else would be gone he headed back out into the main area. Sitting on the stage and just looked up at the ceiling. It felt good to say it but at the same time held no purpose. Not a one of them would notice that this was his way of speaking his history. Of explaining the dark days he had been through. These poems were his way of living. Of being more than a shell. They helped him cope with the memories that constantly haunted him. There was no rest from the wicked. Those words fit his memories perfectly. He was wicked or so he had been told. He had been told he was sick and thus was being fixed because of being sick. There was no rest for the wicked.