Miss Alice

The dirt road that winds throughout the woods, is the road I must walk, to make my way to school. On this road, there is nothing but a single house, with vines crawling up its iron gate. Though this gate, everyday, I see a garden, filled with overgrown rosebushes, shrubs, and a single Sakura tree. Also everyday, I see a woman with black hair falling to her feet like a curtain, always clothed in a black dress, the old fashioned kind with frills, ruffles, and lace, kneeling in the dirt, preoccupied with the puppet at her hand, as she makes it dance. Everyday, passing by this womans house, I would slow my pace, to a walk, mesmerized by the elegance of the puppet as it danced at the tips of her fingers, nails painted black.

I passed by this house, everyday until one day in December, a day in which little snow flakes silently descended from the clouds in the sky only to melt away once softly landing on the ground. I walked down the dirt road as I watched my breath form little frosty clouds in the sky, that is until I reached that womans house. I paused for a moment, shocked to that she was out in the snow, before walking on. “Alice.” One word, my name, spoken clearly and concisely. Quickly, I spun around to see who, on this abandoned road could have said my name. That is when my eyes met the woman's gaze, unwavering, with piercing green eyes. “Alice” She repeated. “How-how-my name..?” I mean to say these words, but instead they remain trapped in my throat, held back by some unknown force. The woman smiles at me, with lips painted black. I immediately disliked her smile, it sent a wave of fear throughout my body, and left me immobile, like poison. She motions for me to come to her side and sit by her, and like a puppet being pulled by strings, I find myself inexplicably being pulled towards her, opening the gate, and sitting beside her, tucking my legs underneath me. “I have something I would like to show you, Alice.” Her voice is high, and sweet, but somehow tinged with a melancholy aura. She rises, and dances on her toes over to a birdcage resting on a branch of the Sakura tree. Hugging the cage to her chest she says, “Do you like my birds, Miss Alice, they're rather charming aren't they, Miss Alice?” I stare at the cage, engraved with roses tinted silver, I stare and stare, but undoubtedly, the cage is empty. So I say so. Suddenly the woman recoils as I my words were daggers. “Oh, I see, its only natural, of course how silly of me.” Then as if released from a spell I stood suddenly, and ran from the lady and her house.

I was not eager to pass by the womans house on the way home, but I chose to do so anyways. Passing by, my heart beat so loudly, it was like it was trying to jump out of my ribcage. But, the sight I saw was not one that I expected. The lady lay face down in the grass, unmoving, her wild hair splayed about. Cautiously, I made my way over to her, stepping lightly on the tips of my toes. Kneeling beside her, I knew, instantly that she was dead. How was this possible? She was alive this morning wasn't she? Yes. Definitely. I stared at her for a few seconds longer. In her right hand, was a pair of silver scissors, and laying in the grass, her puppet. I bent down to observe the puppet, the puppet that had once danced with such vigor it was like it was alive. Its strings had been cut. Huh. What I shame....now it was as dead as the lady.

It was around this time that I realized that I should tell someone about this poor lady's fate. And as I was standing up to leave I noticed the birdcage, its door was wide open. Not thinking much of it I turned to face the door out. Something was wrapped around my wrist, I had somehow managed to get myself tangled in the puppets loose strings. As i struggled to untangle myself, i only became more and more stuck. I sighed, for i wasn't exactly thrilled about touching a dead body, but it seemed there was no choice. Reaching over, I carefully pulled the sizzors out of the corpse's hand, carefull not to touch her. “Excuse me, you wouldn't mind would you?” I reach for the woman's scissors to cut myself free. SnipSnipSnip. Suddenly, I collapse, and fall to the ground, like a rag doll thrown to the side, and it is as I am falling that for some reason, for the first time, I notice that the womans puppet looks just like me. Silently, I scream, and as my vision begins to fade, in the distance I see two birds flying up up up into the sky, and.....

I had a lot of trouble with past vs. present for some reason. heh. Sorry! Anyways, this was inspired by the song Still Doll by Kanon Wakeshima. Good song.

The Brass Knocker

I stand in the middle of a road. I don't know how I got there-just that I must walk down the road. So I do. I keep my eyes on the faded white dotted line, splitting the world in half. I walk the line as if it was a tightrope. Heel, toe, heel, toe. Clouds of dust engulf my feet. Even though I keep my footsteps light, placed percisely, the sound echoes around me. I look up, seeing what surrounds me. Houses-bright and welcoming-line each side of the road. Perfect, bright green grass fills in the gaps between houses. Enclosing each house in its own prison, are wrought iron fences-vines and roses crawling up the sides. There are no people, no noise. I keep walking along the line, the long, straight line. If I could feel or think anything, I would say the journey was agonizing. I walk on, passing house after house-a constant rythm that was becoming familiar. Until, abruptedley, the road ended. The line stopped right at the base of a small flight of stairs leading to a faded, peeling door that looked as if it had once been painted blood-red. Hanging on the door was a worn-looking brass knocker-a snake intertwined with a rose. The sight of the knocker was intriguing. I tore my eyes away for a moment. The entire house was built of gray stone, covered in red roses climbing towards the far-away sky. The house was beautiful. My eyes wandered their way back to the brass knocker. Out of instinct, I walked up the stairs to the door, and gripped the brass knocker. Instantly, the chill of the cool metal spread through me. I struck the door with the knocker. 'knock' The scent of metal floated through the air, stirred by the brass knocker. It almost smelt like blood. I knocked again. 'knock' With each knock, the chill spread farther through my body. I knocked again. 'knock' A thought was finally permitted to enter my mind. That one precious thought was is this what I really want? But I never had time to delve deeper into this question. The door opened with a 'kreak' and there, stood a shadow.

My Soul a Tree

Roots planted deep. Limbs are weary and tired, The wind is a push of imagination, its coming this way My curves and details are overseen, I am tugged at, broken, and cut off I am there for strength, to help you hold on I have been carved in, the past still lingers.

His Legacy Continues

Of a loving soul,

this adolescent boy,

has vanished from our unjust world.

Swept forcefully to a new vastness,

just beyond our grasps.

Although,

when fading away,

it was not in peace and mercy.

Insteed,

it was in pain and unmistakable misery.

Now,

do not forget.

We will not remember of his last moments.

Insteed,

when his name flows through our ears,

joyful laughs and pleasent smiles enter way.

Such as a flower;

with its sparkling pedals appearing,

after a dark, and dismal winter.

So now,

the blissful happiness

is seared into our welcoming minds.

And to those such as me,

who were too late to whitness this eighth wonder,

of our everlasting planet

Imagine the most gleeful person you have seen,

and multiply them by two.

Still,

do not fret.

For his legacy shall continue.

Through our hearts,

his soul shines.

Forever in our memories,

lays the glorious,

Cody Parks.

Lost In Midair

Suspended in air,

nowhere near the ground.

The wind rushes past,

resisting my weight.

Lost in midair,

with time sped up.

No way to stop myself,

it's too late.

The ground comes to view,

and appears underneath me.

It was there the whole time.

Wind and Sky

Sky: What's wrong?
Wind: I'm having some trouble.
Sky: Maybe I can help.
Wind: Well... okay. How is it that you get to where you're your going if you don't know where you are?
Sky: Oh, that's easy, just ask for directions.
Wind: Good idea!

(looks around for a passerby, then looks up and sees sky)

Wind: Excuse me sky?
Sky: Yes?
Wind: Could you tell me where I am?
Sky: Well... I don't really know were exactly you are.
Wind: What do you mean you don't know? You're every where.
Sky: Ya, but you're standing right there and you don't know where you are.
Wind: This is true.

(long pause)

Wind: Excuse me sky?
Sky: Yes?
Wind: Could you point me in the direction of where I'm going?
Sky: Sure! Just stay under me and you should be fine.
Wind: (sarcastically) Thanks.
Sky: You're welcome.

Blissful Darkness

Gently I let the breath escape me, to have the white puffed cloud ascend in the cold night air. I begin Quivering, for not only the violent winds rushing past my bare arms, but for pure fear of the inevitable future events awaiting me. Shutting my eyes I can vividly imagine my old life and the friends that I was rarely separated by. Bouncing on the old worn-out trampoline; laughing long and hard about the most random of subjects that our smiles would get stuck, and be permanently fixed on our faces for days at a time. Nostalgic by these memories I often find myself with lips crooked into a joyful smile. Although when my gray eyes flutter open once again, a depression begins to settle. The steel chains linked perfectly to cut forcefully into my wrists creating the physical pain needed to block the existing mental pain. Clanging sounds in the near distance making my head pound fiercely racing my marathon heartbeat. Gently steps approach my imprisoned body in the all-too small dog kennel bloodied by past memories. I keep my head bent down toward the dark dirt ground until his steel-toed boots enter my vision. Carefully I lift my head to investigate his expression; stern and determined. I stare deeply at his eyes searching desperately for a soul I have not yet found after an excruciatingly long week. “Hello darling,” he whispers with obvious fake enthusiasm. Concern wells up within me as he cautiously wields a shimmering silver blade. Tears flow down my dirt streaked face as I blurt out hurryingly, “No… please… no…” For a split second a pain pierces through my skin, then, peacefulness slips into my mind. As the seconds ebb onward his laughter floats farther away as long with any lingering worries. Strangely, no white light comes to welcome my dismay, instead, all colors fade, fade into a dark ditch, fade into oblivion, and this sanctuary becomes the most blissful place I will or would have ever gone.

Trustworthy

Once upon a time there was a man who had a choice. He had two doors in front of him and he needed to pick one to walk through. "You may ask one of us which door to choose," said one of the two brothers guarding the door, "but only one. Then you must pick a door. One door leads to long life, the other to a plummeting death."

The man opened his mouth to talk but was quickly cut off by the first bother, "You should also know that one of us always lies and the other can only tell the truth."

This made the man stop and think, he sat down and thought for a moment. And then he sat and thought a moment more, and then another and another and another. Sat and thought sat and thought sat and thought. Finally, just as the moon took back the sky, he stood.

"You!" he exclaimed, pointing at the first brother, "If I were to ask your brother which door to walk through, which would he choose, left or right?" The first brother smiled fondly at him and then said, "The right."

The man walked over to the door and opened it, turning to express his thanks, the brother then stepped forward and whispered, "one last thing... I lied."

And the man fell.

The Man on the Curb

Every day he sat on the curb. Sometimes parents stared. Sometimes their kids asked what he was doing.

"Waiting." He would reply.

He never looked sad or pensive. He did just as he said: he waited. He would sit; eyes wide and glazed over, staring up the street much like a child awaiting the icecream truck.

The kids would hear whispers of their parents, hushed tones explaining to each other, "She left. And she's never coming back."

Once a boy tried to sit down with the man, and his parents hurried out of their house and scooped him up, locking the door firmly behind them. For the rest of the day through the window the boy watched the man who sat so casually on the curb, rose in hand.

He wore a different button up shirt every day and khaki pants, shiny brown shoes and a belt. He always held a flower; sometimes a daisy, sometimes a tulip, sometimes a rose. he came out and sat on the curb every day at five o clock and stared at the top of the street till nine.

"Crazy." Claimed some of the parents. "Sad and insane." Came muffled whispers of others.

The children on the street liked to play ball in the cul-de-sac and he would wave from his little indent on the curb, the casual hello of a neighbor. The kids would wave back and wonder who his flower was for and when they were to arrive.

He worked in the garden and on the lawn, keeping them beautiful and impressive for the surrounding trees and passing shadows. His house was white with blue shingles, a sweet little cottage built for two. And each day he walked out the front door, made his way down to the curb and sat.

It was a simple afternoon, light breeze in the air and sun sending rays down to caress the occupants of the street while the parents watched the man and the kids played carelessly as a small silver car glided down the street. The man stood, salt and pepper hair slightly ruffled by the breeze. The kids kept playing, unaffected and the adults gawked, some peeping their heads out of their doors and windows.

From the car stepped a regal woman, silver hair streaming down her back. The man offered her the yellow daisy and she took it, smiling as if this were the simplest gesture she'd ever recieved. Without so much as a word, the two laced their hands together and strode up the yard to his lovely home at ease, content smiles on their faces.

After opening the door and allowing her to walk in, he turned back to the cul-de-sac and saluted to the children, who offered toothy grins and waves in response. He entered the house.

The parents, snooping from doors and windows and some standing in plain view just watched, mouths agape.

I am Uncomplete.

I stare blankly ahead,

eyes not focused on what is in front of me,

But rather on a wish.

My hands are typing without me thinking

This really must be what i feel inside.

All around me is cold, in the inside too

My throat is filled with broken glass, and I can not even manage to speak

I try and try, but nothing seems to go right.

Throughout my years, i have not seemed to learn

I still get hurt.

Time just seems to lap over, when i want it to stay in one place.

The Wooden Platform

I awake,

the pain of cold metal digging into my wrists.

As I open my eyes, I am blinded

by the light of the outside world.

Gruff hands seize my arms,

dragging me out of my cell,

the cell that had been my home

for so long.

What day is it? I ask my captor.

He doesn't respond, just tugs me along.

Today's the day, isn't it?

Before the man even replies, I know I'm right.

As he nods, tears stream down my cheeks

as I digest this dreadful,

dreadful news.

The silent man pushes me out,

out into the daytime.

How I had dreamed of leaving that dreaded place,

not knowing it would be in such

dire circumstances.

They lead me up onto the wooden platform,

a stage to show spectators death.

They force me onto a big barrel,

wrap a long, fraying rope round my neck.

A long listing of crimes,

none which I have committed.

Have you any last words, murderer? someone calls out.

Just one, sir. Innocence. I whisper back.

I close my eyes, strangely calm,

as the lever is pulled

and the platform

falls.

Reminiscent

Those who have Passed
are Honored with Flowers,
Reminiscent
of Life and Beauty.

Flowers,
with Life cut short,
only to shrivel and Die
among the Everlasting.

Flowers,
of linen and plastic,
forever Present
among the forever Gone.

Flowers,
with searching roots,
left to Live
among the Deceased.

In The Making

Sometimes I wish

I wasn't

Quite so mature.

Or quite so smart.

Or quite so thoughtful.

Sometimes I want

To be

Cared for, not care-taker.

Advised, not advisor.

The childish one.

But you see,

I've got

Expectations to meet.

And obligations to fulfill.

And my future to ensure.

To everyone else

I am success in the making.

His wings lay hunched over, black with fury, like it hurt him to lift them.

He laid there, calm, with shallow breaths as sharp as razors.

The hole in his heart would not be able to create a wall around it again,

He was so lost from the start, hanging on by the tips of his fingers.

Pale, each vein darker than they were before.

Hair the color of ink fell to one side after the battle that left them stranded.

His body showed pain but his face was stone.

The scars on his arms told more stories of his past then his mouth did.

____________________________________________________

I decided to try something a little different then what im use to. It is kind of random but i wanted to see if i could pull it off, if you have any suggestions at all, please let me know. Thank you!

North Wind

Note: I was thinking about how in fairy tales and in mythology, the winds are always personified. I thought it would be cool to try to write something from the perspective of the north wind. I'm not entirely happy with the result, because I feel like it is kind of confusing, but here it is anyway.
____________________________________________________________________________________

They call me Boreas, Thracion, Aquilo, Septentrio – I have a name in every language. I am the One who Devours and the Great Hunger. I am the sharp chill of winter, and those who breathe my essence weaken and fall into infirmity. I cause the earth to harden and I throw storms at mankind. I am powerful, strong, and deadly.
I have left children pale and lifeless behind me, their laughter silenced and their eternal wonder stifled. I have buried grown men in snow, left them to die. I carry screams of grief and pleas for mercy, and I share this burden with the world.
But despite my nature, I once experienced love.
Her name was Tryphosa, and she was beautiful. While other humans would look through me, she would look at me, and she would marvel at me. Where others saw cruelty, she saw power. Where others saw ugliness, she saw grace. She heard me sing through the groaning trees, saw me paint the air with ice. She knew my beauty and my power, and I, in my foolishness, thought that meant she knew me. I thought that she wanted me, just as I had begun to want her.
And so I stayed with her, thinking that I was doing right. I would whisper outside her window, compose music of windnotes and hail-caused drumbeats. I showed the strength of my love in my heavy winds and heavier storms, never thinking of the consequences. I was a fool.
I stayed with my love, long after the time that I would have normally left her country. I could not bear to leave her, and I thought that she wanted me to stay. But then, listening outside her window, I heard her crying.
“Winter has its place, and I don't begrudge it that. But this year, it has far outstayed its welcome. Won't this cursed winter ever end?” she asked, and my heart twisted. Another voice answered, “The gods must be angry at us, to send us this neverending storm.”
I stopped listening then. I was a curse to them. My love was spurned, my art reviled. I cried that night; my tears were snow and ice, my gasps were howling winds. That night, I was not alone in my tears. Inside, Tryphosa cried because she feared me. My grief turned into anger. I decided that she was just like all the rest: weak and not worth my time. Everything I loved about her, it was all just temporary, just until spring came. She had not been worth my love.
I was resolved; if she wanted me gone, I would leave. But not without saying goodbye to the thing that I had once loved. And so when she next ventured outside, I circled her. I wanted to say goodbye in a fitting way , a way that reflected her cold heart. I decided to give her a gift, a gift the Tryphosa of my imagination would have appreciated. I cared little that she would hate it in reality. So I bedecked her in ice jewelry, more brilliant than diamonds. I gave her necklaces, bracelets, and anklets of ice. And then I left her without looking back.
When I returned the next year, Tryphosa was gone. I thought that she had migrated, as humans often do. That is, until I heard a young mother warn her child, “Don't stay out too long. You don't want to end up like Tryphosa.” Realization struck me like a hammer. My gift had anchored her to the frozen earth. She had been unable to move, until she too was frozen. I killed her, and I knew that she did not deserve it.
I left that place, and I have never returned. I refuse to desecrate her memory by laying ice on her grave. She was right to stop loving me, for I am by nature a killer.

Nothing Special.

Barefoot,

I step forward knowing that I am who I am because of my past, lies, and secrets.

The light is blinding, everlasting, in a world where I am judged.

It never fades,

follows me as if its lost and I'm the only one who knows the way to get back

But back to what?

The past?

I am nothing special,

just a shadow cast by a bigger and better person.

I sit alone, enjoying the small things,

the things people over look for its beauty when its not there.

I am one of those things.

Just Say It

One of the most important aspects of fiction writing is dialogue.  Dialogue is often what separates the great writers from the good.  It seems we all spend our time developing beautiful descriptions and elaborate phrasing and sentence structure but have a "tin ear" for dialogue.  It is the key to a good story and a good character.  This article is a good, short primer on the beginnings of understanding dialogue.  Let me know what you think...and yes, this is a hint that I want to see some fiction going up on this blog at some point.

Luna

Luna Luna Lovely
your shell a hallow light
stains the darkness,
liquid shimmer,
banished
to the night.

Sister
I give you my pity
for sorrows that you shed,
still you are my mirror
giving sight,
a light
while I'm in bead.

My kiss
a fragrant beauty
shown upon the earth,
and you
a shallow puddle
dissolving at your birth.

Luna Luna lovely,
as lovely as can be.
Still,
your grace and kindness
can not compare
to me.

A reflection of my beauty,
one in which you borrow.
A reflection of my happiness
carved into your sorrow.

Luna day is over,
now it is your time.
But Luna Luna lovely,
my dear sister,
know you shall never
truly shine.

Never Ending Waters.

Swaying deeper and deeper into the blue

My eyes are blurred, my skin is pale

Bubbles dance around me, each in a different direction

They swirl around me, forming into nothing.

My hands float up above me and my hair now a a dark mahogany

I dance farther and farther into a unconscious dream state.

Only being consumed in these never ending waters,

I'm clawing at nothing, struggling for no reason.

I let it take control, filling my mind, my lungs,

My world.

Where is everybody?

As Pink Floyd so perfectly put it..."Hello, Is there anybody in there?"  For those of you who have been posting work I can't tell you how impressed I am with the depth and style that is exhibited on this blog.  I have two requests...
1.  When you post something on the blog make a conscious effort to comment on at least one other piece that is on the blog so that the author of that piece can get some validation for their work.  It might help to change your settings as a contributor so that you get an email update when someone posts something new or when someone leaves a comment.
2.  Look at the left of the blog at the list of contributors....if you know any of those people and know that they write but have not been visiting the blog or posting their work start bugging them to put stuff up there and be an active writer with us.

Keep Writing

H

Judge for Yourself

Uncertainty fills my every move.
For everywhere scandalous eyes peer.
To pinpoint our insecurities
For either our appearence,
Who we’re friends with,
Or what we smile upon on a beutiful spring afternoon,
As songbirds flutter about in the air
filling our hearts with inspiration
From the screams and shouts from those besides,
As the sun glissens off your face,
And you realise the next goal is within your reach
To art,
Having your hand glide accross the page,
Without a care other than the shades and colors
That crowd the mind to witness
The next wonderous masterpeice
Then, deem you popular,
The next "it" in the lives of others
Hearing of "perfection"
Others seemingly try to strive
To be more you and less them
Or freak
An outcast, an individual
An oak tree living among willows
Although,
No matter how unlikely it seems at times
We are like china on a hight shelf
Fragile and prepared to crack
So next time before you judge,
Get to know them and deem for yourself,
Whether that person is a friend or foe.

Where Words Overlap

It's always there,

whether it shows or not.

It makes us human,

and is perfectly normal.

People say hate is a strong word,

but sometimes it is necessary.

Hate can be slight,

or severely strong.

It bubbles inside you,

and occasionally boils over.

Sometimes toward things,

sometimes toward people,

and even sometimes toward yourself.

Hate can be mutual,

or single sided.

No one knows where this feeling comes from,

or if it feels the same to everyone,

but everyone knows their personal reactions.

Hate can be wanted,

unwanted,

or even regretted.

I'm not quite sure how all this fits into one word but it does.

It's always there,

whether it shows or not.

It makes us human,

and is perfectly normal.

People say love is a strong word,

but sometimes it is necessary.

Love can be slight,

or severely strong.

It bubbles inside you,

and occasionally boils over.

Sometimes toward things,

sometimes toward people,

and even sometimes toward yourself.

Love can be mutual,

or single sided.

No one knows where this feeling comes from,

or if it feels the same to everyone,

but everyone knows their personal reactions.

Love can be wanted,

unwanted,

or even regretted.

Not only does all this fit into one word but oddly enough, it fits into two. Although they are total opposites the lines of love and hate do overlap. And though we may wish otherwise the two are much closer than we'd like to believe.

False Daylight

To stop the stars from devouring me, I shield my eyes with false day. I cover my face with plastic flowers, cheap forget-me-nots and daisies. I blind my eyes with the ravaging summer sun and ignore the stars of truth. But the earth moves in an ongoing circle, and night falls again. I am eaten away. I can feel the truth gnawing and worrying at my bones, like a hound dog. I just want to be numb, I want to disassemble myself and put my heart on a shelf, until its safe to feel again. I wan to sit there, staring at it until the summer, when the stars rarely com to feast upon my ragged bones. In the dark I desperately beg to be out of the burning truth, but I forget all about it when the lying sun rises again.

(i dont quite know if i like this writing, any suggestions?)

Where We Are

I hear you say something, though I don't know exactly what it is. Though my brain recognizes a sound, I stopped listening a while ago. I can't listen. I just can't anymore.

I turn to look at you. All I want is to see you, your face, your eyes, anything, but your so far gone that you really aren't there. My eyes register your basic figure, but that's all you are, a basic figure. The space inside your outline remains to be filled. It remains to be filled with guesses, with hopes, with anything and everything I used to know but can longer guarantee.

You're gone, and so am I. Let's just face it, there's no room to go back. This road isn't wide enough for a u-turn, or at least, not for both of us, and I can't leave you here just as much as you can't leave me.

I'm stuck, but that's okay. You're here, too.

I dance because it's my passion

because it's all I think about

because it's all I talk about

because it's my life

because it's what I love

I dance because I feel free

because the rhythm takes me to another world

because I can create dreams

because I do it for tears, and for laughter

because I perform for myself

I dance because I am a dancer

Magic

A pen I found, forgotten in my desk drawer that never opens. I recognize it instantly-it used to be favorite. When I was little, I would use it to write Christmas cards and letters to Santa. I was always amazed that the outside of the pen was black, yet the ink on my paper was red. I thought it was magic.
Now I'm writing in one of my many half-filled journals, hoping I don't run out of ink.

Even magic dies.

It Won't Be Me

The next time you talk to me

I want you to see what it does.

I want you to see what happens to me

Every time you speak.

I want you to look me in the eye and tell me.

Tell me the truth.

And when you look you'll have no other choice but to see

What the truth gets you

'Cause it sure as anything ain't me.

I Wish I Could Go Back

I want to go back to those times.

Those times of pixie dust, and magic carpets,

Singing birds and poisonous apples.

I want to go back to a simpler time,

When my whole world consisted of fairy tales.

To when me and Jerry set Tom's tail on fire,

To when my favorite puppet's nose grew leaves,

To when I knew exactly who I was.

Living in the story books and TV shows, anything could happen to me and I would be okay,

'Cause I knew that I had Hercules looking over my shoulder,

And Robin Hood right around the corner.

I miss fighting dragons and dancing in elegant ball gowns.

I miss my old friends, Mad Hatter and Winnie the Pooh.

I want swim under the sea with Ariel,

And fly around with Dumbo.

I miss playing in the sandbox with Tommy and Chuckie,

Phil and Lil.

I miss everything that life used to be.

I wish I could go back.

If Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, well so is Imagination.

The clouds will be my pillow

the stars my protection.

and the trees are my shield

The sun for the light,

wind for guiding.

Water will be my mirror for things i cannot see

and the snow for curiousity.

The One with Power, Knows Best.

The wind will push my dreams farther

my hopes even closer

This is the turning point,

Its my turn now.

I promise not to hurt, just to make things better

To cradle the world in my small worn down hands

and never let go.

Goodbye

I'm leaving but

You haven't said

Goodbye.

I'm right here in

Your hindsight, an

Afterthought.

I'm already old,

And you've moved on.

So for every time

You don't turn around,

Goodbye.

Yea, I know the rhythm is kinda all over the place. I really like the idea in this poem and i want to keep it as similar to this as possible, but at the same time I feel like there's stuff i need to fix... I don't know, tell me what you guys think and if you have any suggestions for changes.

To Give a Man a Fish

There were three men.
They were wealthy
and had all they ever wanted
and more.

Then there were the beggars.
Sitting in gutters
choking on life.

The first man said,
"I have so much,
but these people sit beneath me in filth.
I will give to theme all I own."

And so he did.

The poor rejoiced in the splendor
they received.
But its riches did not last long,
nor the first man.
He died in the filth
he had tried to clean.

The second man,
seeing the mistakes of he before him,
gave to the less fortunate
all he could
without drowning himself.

The beggars took it with pleasure,
but when its glory ran dry
they pounded his door for more.

"I have nothing left to give,"
he cried,
"nothing but my own beating heart!"

So they took that too.

Know that it was not greed
that stank in the pit of their chests,
but blind starvation.

The Third man looked upon
the gloom of there filth
and took a walk to the town square.

There in the slime of the city
he chose one ragged boy.
"You see this?"
he questioned
pulling one copper coin from his pocket.

The boy nodded in aw.

"Take it to the women over there.
Buy from her yeast for bread
and make with it your own loaf,
then sell it
for two coins,"

He died,
a wealthy man.

(I'd just like to say that the only reason this is not all in red is because Horvath sucks)

Dreaming In Words

Are dreams...

imagination or reality,

or maybe both?

wishes or fantasy,

or maybe neither?

Are dreams...

words or phrases,

or a conversation?

written or thought,

or something totally different?

Are dreams...

predictions or of the past,

or even a combination?

thoughts or rejected ideas,

or even a blend?

Are dreams...

welcomed or undesired,

or is it the same thing?

cheerful or depressing,

or is it interchangeable?

Are dreams...

full of fear or rage,

or feared because of rage?

full of joy or excitement,

or enjoyed because of excitement?

Are dreams...

the same or different,

but similar for everyone?

unique each time or repetitive,

but different for everyone?

Are dreams...

one second or one hour,

or does it make no difference?

remembered or forgotten,

or is there a different answer?