My DandelionI once picked dandelions as a child. They seemed like lovely flowers: yellow, bright. Then as I grew my mother called them weeds, And I learned that appearances deceive. They say that yellow roses symbolize Friendship, and then I met you: yellow, bright. I thought I'd found a rose, I'd found a friend. But you were just a dandelion in Disguise, just waiting patiently to choke The life from me. A weed. You are a weed. I guess I'll learn again that looks can lie. And dandelions are good for one thing: To wish upon before they blow away. I feel the wind approaching. AndMy Dandelion
Rain, Rain, Go AwayShe throws her head back in the rain to let The drops fall on her face and closed eyes and Perhaps to taste the storm upon her lips. I love the rain; I've tossed my head back too To dance in joy or perhaps to mask tears. The rain can soothe distress or swell delight. But no blithe smile crosses her mouth tonight, And no wet spots but rain caress her cheeks. A hollow pit's her stomach--or her soul. Her eyes are opened and she shakes her head; "It's too cold," she says, "cold tonight for rain." There's no beauty in rain tonight for me.Rain, Rain, Go Away
On going to a poetry reading.His voice was a prayer. He transforms my heart into a censer; the smoke spirals higher towards heaven with each well-chosen word. When I speak my words fall willy-nilly, nevermind where they land. But he treats each word as a sacred vessel, transporting meaning from his life into mine. I have trouble distinguishing where his poetry ends and his simple conversation begins. I tell myself it's only because he looks like the archbishop, but each worldy word draws my soul upward and my knee downward in genuflection. I struggle to keep my seat. I'd look rather silly kneeliOn going to a poetry reading.
New scraps
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*cutting my moms b-day cake*
Mom: That's a big peice of cake!
Me: It dosn't matter about the width its all about the langth
everone in room: *ROFL*
Me: . . . . . WHAT? D8
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the wheels spining but the mouse is dead ._.
Or would you rather remain a mystery and keep people guessing?
Thanksgiving coming up, time to do my annual mashed potato sculpture.
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It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time.
Tallulah Bankhead
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It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time.
Tallulah Bankhead
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Prosthetic head.
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Underneath that silver breast beats the heart of an incurable sadist.
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-Elsa-
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