Maxx's Writings


So, I'm gonna post a bunch of my short stories and poems here. That's it, lol.

I'm open for feedback/criticism for my writing, just don't be horrid.

And, uh, a little warning: some topics I go over can be a little dark. Especially the first story I'm gonna post. I'll put a warning on the posts with the stories, telling exactly what topics it covers, so that people are (hopefully) plenty prepared.


So, this first one is a story I wrote for English in Year 11. My teacher loved it, and I got the highest possible grade for it.

It is about a girl who killed herself, so it does deal with themes of depression and suicide.

No More

The sun rises over a small park. The darkness retracts. What was shrouded in shadows only an hour go is revealed. Calm. Not a living soul in sight to disturb the silence. A soft wind blows through the grass, through the playground, through the trees. The dew on the flora glistens in the sunlight, and the fauna quietly sing their early morning songs. A single blackbird lands on a branch and curiously pecks at an old rope attached to its momentary resting spot.

The tree is a mighty oak, still standing strong despite all it's gone through, all it's seen. Laughter and tears. Parties and fights. Life and death. The rope it holds it not just a rope, nor is it there for no purpose. For it indeed had a purpose before this morning. The rope was given the heavy task of helping a young girl escape all the torture and abuse of this reality. That young girl shifts in the breeze, swinging gently from the rope around her neck.

A small smile rests on her face, as if she is sleeping, dreaming. She makes no sound, no movement. She is finally at peace.

Her eyes, open and bloodshot, stare into nothingness. The shadows surrounding them suggest that the Eternal Sleep is the first sleep she has had for a long time. And the marks and bruises over her pale skin suggest why. Garbed simply in a tee shirt and jogging bottoms, hair wild, no shoes, this is not the body of a girl who cared about herself. Years and years of suffering have led to this moment; it was inevitable, really, that this would happen.

Along her arms are the marks of a fighter who was only fighting against herself. Scars, old and new, show the journey this girl had been on. A series of cuts show why that journey had to end this way.

No more.

Carved into her skin by her own hand are those two words. She wanted no more to do with this world, and so had to leave it. The words are covered in a crust of dry blood, but so clear. Each cut had been precise, intentional. The blood trail runs down the girl's hand, still dripping off of her middle finger into the blood-soaked earth. The cuts are deep; it had been a race between them and the rope to see which would kill the girl first.

A sudden gust of wind causes the body to turn, and the words to knock into the trunk of the oak, leaving a bloody smear that will stay there until the end of time. The words are now obscured, but the cuts are still visible, worse now that the rough bark has caused them to widen. Wide enough to show the layers that made up the girl, right down to the glistening bone.

Children appear in the playground, towing their parents behind them, as the park opens. The air is filled with the laughter of young girls and boys as they play happily with one another. All too young to know the torture and abuse of this reality, that leaves one wishing they could leave it all behind. All too young to yet recognise the stench of death.

All too young to notice, swinging gently in the breeze, the pale lifeless body of the girl who wanted no more.


This one is something I wrote in 2018. It reads like a poem, but was the thought process of a character I started working on. Some have described it as 'deep'.
It is the character thinking and wondering about death.

If death were to claim me now, would I even notice?
Or have I already been claimed, with my soul stuck here on earth?

If I could end this on my own, would death still claim me?

Can the already dead be claimed, if I am dead?
Can the still living be claimed, if I am alive?

And if death were to claim me, where would I go?

Would I be damned to hell?
Or would I be blessed to heaven?

Would it really be all that bad to be sent to hell?
Would it really be all that good to be sent to heaven?

What if I were sent to neither?

What if I were stuck in limbo forever?

Or has that already happened?
Is this existence just an eternal limbo?

Or will death never claim me?

Is that a blessing?
Is that a curse?

If a blessing, why does it leave me wanting to die?
If a curse, why does it make me happy never to die?

And if death will not claim me, why will death not claim me?

Is it not my time to be claimed?
Am I too alive to be claimed?

Or am I but a figment of someone else's imagination?
Am I but a dream, created from the desire to not die?

Am I cursed with the pain of consciousness, without any real consciousness?

Are all these things around me real?
Or are they made from dream material too?
Are all these people around me real?
Or are they made from dream material too?

Are we all dream creatures that think we have control over our own minds?
Are we just pawns in someone else's dream game?

Is the illusion of being claimed by death just that?
An illusion?

Will we really never be claimed by death?


Here's another poem, one I wrote near the beginning of last year.

Never Stopping

I'm always busy,
Always doing something -
A project going on,
Or two or three or four;
I'm always doing something,
Never slowing;
People tell me to relax,
They tell me that just for a moment,
It would be healthy to stop.

I am scared of stopping.

I'm scared that if I stop I'll fall,
Into the dark abyss from which I'll never escape.
I'm scared that stopping,
Will be what brings about my end.

I'm always busy,
Always doing something -
A project going on,
Or two or three or four.

I listen to what everyone is saying.

I stop.

I fall


Down into the pit of dispair.
Down into the endless abyss of darkness.

You catch me.

You hold me tight in your arms,
And bring me out of the abyss,
Out of the darkness.

You hold me tight
And promise you'll always be here

Stopping me from falling into the abyss.

I'm always busy,
Always doing something -
A project going on,
Or two or three or four;
I never slow,
Never stop.

But in your arms,
I stop.

And you hold me close,
And keep me from falling into the abyss.


And another poem. This one is short, but really nice.


Of us

Are a little




Some of us

Make each other



And other. This one may or may not be about death? I don't even know myself with some things I write, lol.

Until That Day Arrives

Until that day arrives,
And all comes to an end,
We just have to deal with it.

Just grin
And bear it
And say nothing
And just put up
With all the abuse they put us through;
All the insults
And pain
And everything.

Until that day arrives,
We can’t get away from it.

But when it does come,
We’ll be able to escape
And leave it all behind;



And the final (maybe?) poem I'll post for today.

Silent Ghost

I am but a silent ghost,
Drifting through this world.
If I were to fade from this world,
And go to the next,
Would my absence
Be noticed?

I am but a silent ghost,
Invisible to all but a few.
If I were to do something,
Anything at all,
Would it even

I am but a silent ghost,
My name unknown to most.
If I were to were to change myself,
In any way,
Would anyone
Even care?

I am but a silent ghost.

I am but a silent ghost.

Is it even noticed?

Does it even matter?

Does anyone even care?