holly f#ck i hate my life i wanna kill my self and everyone else who talks to me
awesomenessqueen66
don't say that. guys this is a page where we HELP each other. @succubussteve tell us why ur mad and we'll help you okay?:)
on February 18, 2016
random_person
noooo you dont
on February 16, 2016
ChocolerryPOP
No don't say that
on February 16, 2016
on February 16, 2016
Name: Darth Raknor
Age: 36
class: sith lord
era: (either between 3&4 4&5 5&6
Lightsaber: red with blades on the hilt that only retract on my hand
Force sensitivity: extremely strong
Species: faleen See More
Affiliation: knight of ren
Force powers: lightning and physical movement
Lightsaber fighting style: 4and 2
Age: 36
class: sith lord
era: (either between 3&4 4&5 5&6
Lightsaber: red with blades on the hilt that only retract on my hand
Force sensitivity: extremely strong
Species: faleen See More
Affiliation: knight of ren
Force powers: lightning and physical movement
Lightsaber fighting style: 4and 2
on December 01, 2015
Name:
Age:
class: (sith bounty hunter jedi etc)
era: (either between 3&4 4&5 5&6
Lightsaber:
Force sensitivity:
Species: See More
Affiliation:
Force powers:
Lightsaber fighting style:
Age:
class: (sith bounty hunter jedi etc)
era: (either between 3&4 4&5 5&6
Lightsaber:
Force sensitivity:
Species: See More
Affiliation:
Force powers:
Lightsaber fighting style:
on December 01, 2015
Form:
Name: darth vakorian
Age: 26
Sith
Era:
Lightsaber: long bright vibrant red
Force sensativity: strong See More
Species: Arkanian
Affiliation: KNIGHT OF REN
Force powers: LIGHTNING FINGERS AND PHYSICAL MOVEMENT
Lightsaber fighting style: OFFENSIVE, AGGRESIVE
Name: darth vakorian
Age: 26
Sith
Era:
Lightsaber: long bright vibrant red
Force sensativity: strong See More
Species: Arkanian
Affiliation: KNIGHT OF REN
Force powers: LIGHTNING FINGERS AND PHYSICAL MOVEMENT
Lightsaber fighting style: OFFENSIVE, AGGRESIVE
on November 23, 2015
The time has been that these wild solitudes,
Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me
Oftener than now; and when the ills of life
Had chafed my spirit—when the unsteady pulse
Beat with strange flutterings—I would wander forth
And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path
Was to me a friend. The swelling hills, See More
The quiet dells retiring far between,
With gentle invitation to explore
Their windings, were a calm society
That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant
Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress
Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget
The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began
To gather simples by the fountain’s brink,
And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood
In Nature’s loneliness, I was with one
With whom I early grew familiar, one
Who never had a frown for me, whose voice
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole
From cares I loved not, but of which the world
Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked
The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,
And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,
That met above the merry rivulet,
Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed
Like old companions in adversity.
Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,
Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay
As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,
The village with its spires, the path of streams
And dim receding valleys, hid before
By interposing trees, lay visible
Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts
Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come
Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,
Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,
And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard
Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,
Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,
That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.
The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,
And ’neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry
A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,
The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track
Of fox, and the raccoon’s broad path, were there,
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree
The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.
Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me
Oftener than now; and when the ills of life
Had chafed my spirit—when the unsteady pulse
Beat with strange flutterings—I would wander forth
And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path
Was to me a friend. The swelling hills, See More
The quiet dells retiring far between,
With gentle invitation to explore
Their windings, were a calm society
That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant
Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress
Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget
The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began
To gather simples by the fountain’s brink,
And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood
In Nature’s loneliness, I was with one
With whom I early grew familiar, one
Who never had a frown for me, whose voice
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole
From cares I loved not, but of which the world
Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked
The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,
And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,
That met above the merry rivulet,
Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed
Like old companions in adversity.
Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,
Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay
As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,
The village with its spires, the path of streams
And dim receding valleys, hid before
By interposing trees, lay visible
Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts
Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come
Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,
Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,
And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard
Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,
Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,
That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.
The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,
And ’neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry
A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,
The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track
Of fox, and the raccoon’s broad path, were there,
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree
The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.
on November 12, 2015
on November 05, 2015
