Drama Queen

Why do I have to be so dramatic about everything? I mean, seriously. So what if my socks are missing? Just because they're my favorite pair in the whole world and my feet are cold without them is no reason to go spinning off into the Pit of Despair. Hah. So there must be some other reason for the spinning. I can see being in the Pit of Despair over missing socks, even ones that weren't my favorites, but did I really have to spin to get there? That's alwaays so discombobulating. I'll be the spinning part had more to do with my elephant. She's mad at me for locking her out of the closet. She liked it in there, but she was too big; she had to go. I knew she was mad when she sent me a yo-yo for Christmas.

Did you used to play with yo-yos? I did. It was fun, but I couldn't do anything cool with it. Up and down was hard enough. Technically it was just the 'up' part that was hard. Down was easy because Gravity was working with me. That reminds me: I tested it the other day, and Gravity still works fine. I lived through it anyway.

The Old Man

The old man wandered down the hall. Every mirror was cracked, and each piece reflected a different shade of grey, even though his cloak was all one color. They all avoided showing his face. His hood was in tatters, and he walked with a limp. In his right hand, he clutched a staff tightly. His eyes burned deep and grim out of their craggy sockets. Bushy eyebrows hinted that the wispy white atop his head was once a thick mane of hair. His beard floated in front of him, brushing his knees on occasion--perhaps just to make certain they were still holding him up.

So...Is this going anywhere? I haven't the faintest idea. Thoughts welcome.

Oooh! Light bulb just went on! But tell me your thoughts anyway.

The Wishing Well

November 18, 2005

A smile whispers in the wind
And spreads its wings to fly;
It glides away on phantom dreams
And melts into a sigh.

The wishing well is grey with age—
With creeping moss adorned;
The tide of time has bent its base—
The stones are cracked and worn.

A spark of laughter snickers past
And twinkles as it goes;
But go it does, and where it lands
Only its echo knows.

The water seems at first so calm—
So fathomless and deep;
But countless cares lie hidden there—
Dark dreams that never sleep.

The mist behind obscures the path
That leads the way back home;
The pad of feet on journeys gone
Still echoes on the stone.

The weather here is never clear—
The wind is cold as ice;
The shadows in the wishing well
Exact a painful price.