Stay Signed In
Do you want to access your site more quickly on this computer? Check this box, and your username and password will be remembered for two weeks. Click logout to turn this off.
Stay Safe
Do not check this box if you are using a public computer. You don't want anyone seeing your personal info or messing with your site.
Only one of my poems yet to surface to the earth...
My dear,
My wrought–iron flower,
How I long for fear,
Of the cold nights,
The winter nights,
That shelter midnight fights.
Let’s not be afraid,
Of what is to come,
But what is on the date,
The bloody sun meets the dead moon,
The quiet keeper of the cemetery gate,
To the one treed hill.
Where the crow is,
As he watches all at their ‘till,
Under the stones that mark their names,
Where they lay forever more,
No more games.
The silence kills,
Under the soil they lay,
Guilty some of them still,
Innocent! They say,
They all lay at conception’s way,
So my dear, my dear,
Do not fret,
For I am here forever yet.
Hello loves... You would think that here, I would be talking of myself. Instead, I have an even better idea. I'll talk to myself.
First thing is that I love with a passion,
Friends
Foreign fruit
Photography
Sunbathing
Bird feathers
Vampires
Rain
Computers
Writing
Love stories
Snow
Chinese food
Night
Stars
Summer parties
Black roses
Razors
Myself
And things that I hate with a passion...
Heat
Posers
Large crowds
Knees
Scabs
Fatty foods
Looking Bad
Pimples
Parents
Preps
Loud, uneeded noise
Nervousness
Cold hands
Fish
Society
Police
Blue or green mascara
Hippies
Being grounded
Getting caught
Getting dumped
Rapists
God
Sweat
The smell of dirt
