Tripping in LoveI don't know why they call it "falling" in love. There's no falling involved. It's not like I hurled myself off a cliff because I saw you at the bottom.Love doesn't work that way. At least not for me.In my opinion, love is more like a hill than a cliff. I didn't fall in love; I tripped. I tripped and tumbled down that hill, and I didn't stop rolling until I was halfway down. But by then, it was too steep to climb up. Believe me, I tried.
My MuseMy muse decided to kidnap me today.He stole me away and made me his slave.At the computer, I type faster and faster,Half-expecting my words to become a disaster.But my muse sits beside me and whispers so clearEvery syllable which he desires to appear.His ethereal form leaves no way to be heard,Save my lacking translations, word for word.He disappears often, flighty at best,Giving me ample time to rest.But his lengthy outings leave much to be desiredAs I wait and I wait to once more be inspired.Involuntary servitude becomes apparentAs I stare out the window, completely transparent.He said hed be back a mere two days ago...But when it comes to my muse, you cant really know.When he returns, I am defiantly abstinent,Until he mentions fresh ideas he found in my absence.Hypnotized by the promise of new notes to sing,I fall hook, line, and sinker for the same old thing.
DecemberIt started in January, the twenty-eighth.It was a brand new year, but it came too late.December still lurked like a stalker behind me,And despite all formalities, continued to stymie.February was only three days short,But December continued his amorous court.Partway through love, only half of it justice,Shunning all other months to dare come between us.A possessive lover, to say the least;He found no reason in wedding by priest.Preferring to take me away by surprise,He paid little attention to my pleas and cries.February approaches, but I draw no closer,For December remains my lifelong composer.
Inches AwayInches away, a young girl sitsAware of my presence, her eyebrows knitThe toddler she holds, she clutches him tighterAnticipating my next moveA backpack rests on the carpeted floorAs she balances motherhood, homework, and choresHer eyes rest on mine, but she soon turns awayExpecting my glances to followThe cross on my shirt must say it allI'm one of "those Christians": a know-it-allThe opposing stereotypes hover, unspokenTainting the thoughts on both sidesThe boy breaks the silence, demanding attentionHis mother is lost in another dimensionShe stares out the window, at ridges and peaksWondering why Im still hereI must tell her something, but I know not what to sayAnd my stop is swiftly approching my wayI arrive much too quickly; I said not a wordTo this young girl who sat mere inches away
Funerals are for SissiesFunerals are for sissies. Nothing is accomplished except the raw expression of emotion through mindless routines and half-empty words. It's not as if you could have heard me whisper a soft "I love you" to your corpse all the way from heaven's gate.Of course, you scarcely knew it even when you were alive, dear. You could only speculate how many little names I had for you. And you never had a clue how many times I whispered them throughout the day, saving your true, beautiful name to fend off the horrors of sleepless nights (only to dream of you once the insomnia died).I raise my custom cocktail in a toast. A toast for you, love. All of this is for you.You knew that I knew that what happened was no accident. You knew that I knew that you desired to fly more than anything. And you flew, love. And then you crashed.My tongue savors the sweet liquid, the very essence of death itself.
You KNOW Emily is sick when...You KNOW Emily is sick when......she takes naps...she doesn't correct everyone's grammar...her own grammar sucks...she can't run on Animal Crossing without getting disoriented, even though she can play Sonic when she is well...she can't RP...she falls asleep at the computer...she keeps accidentally clicking on the wrong things...Propel is her new best friend...the phone is her mortal enemy...she's quarantined in the basement...she doesn't feel like playing Age of Mythology with her dad...she doesn't want to listen to music...she stops thinking about writing...she stops reading Death Note...she stops reading, period...the room feels too dark...but if she turned on a light, it would be too bright...she stops caring when someone leaves the door open...people actually start closing the door because they're afraid of the germs escaping...she spends hours staring at a neon green lava lamp...she can barely walk the ten feet from the living room to her bedroo