She wants to know what it's like to be young,
Born into a grown up world
where Peter Pan never existed,
Neverland just an insane creation.
Alice is just a long forgotten dream
and the idea of Wonderland is nonsense.
Her hair isn't grey like the hearts surrounding her,
Yet she's lived twice as much as their combined existence.

The Fairy Godmother never gave her a shot
to lose a glass heel that the prince would never even find.
Her dreams are whiter than the purest snow,
Though she was born with a ruby red apple in her mouth.
She will remain a beauty, sleeping for eternity,
a princess locked away forever in a cold, dank dungeon.
This beast is savagely cruel, a truly heartless entity.
Their is no changing it, no saving it, no saving her.

This remembrance somehow still makest me guilty;
in every minute of it I feelest tangled, I feelest unfree.
I loathest this less genial side of captivity,
but still, 'tis ironically within my heart, and my torpid soul;
ah, I am afraid that it shall somehow becomest foul,
and I wantest very much, to endear my soul to liberty,
but so long as I hath consciously loved thee,
My confidence remaineth always too bold-
But I promisest that this shall becomest my last sonata,
Should thou ever findest, that thou desirest it to be;
whilst my incomplete song shall be our last cantata.
Ah, this series shall but never end,
Should I approachest and befriendest it,
but to confess, more I thinkest of it, the more my heart is pained;
No coldness shall it feelest, nor any beat of which, shall remaineth.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My heart, ah-my poor heart, is still restricted, and left within thee,
And amongst this dear spring's shuffling leaves, still blooms,
And shall bloomest forever with benevolence,
and even greater benevolence, as spring fliest and leavest
Just like thy sweet temper, and ever ostentatious laughter,
Thy voice and words, that are no longer here for me,
But still as clear, and authentic like a piece of gospel music, to me.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My pleasurable toils, and consummation still liest in thee-
as forever seemest that I shall trust thee, and thee only,
For the brief moment we had was but grand-and pleasant,
All the way more enigmatic, though frail, and exuberant
than I couldst perhaps rememberest,
But as I rememberest them, I shall also rememberest thee,
For those short nights are always fond and stellar to my memory,
As thou pronounced me lovely-and called myself thy lady,
As thou lingered about and placed thy sheepish fingers on my knee.
Ah, thee, whose heart is so kind and ever gently considerate,
From the moment thou stared at me I knew thou wert my unbinding fate.
And thy scent-o, thy manly scent, too calming but at times, poisonous;
Was more than any treasures I'd once withheld in my hand.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My enormity liest in thee, and so doth every pore
of my irrevocable, consolable sense;
Thou awakened my pride, thou livened up my tense,
Thou disturbed my mind, thou stole my conscience.
And with thy touch I was burning with bashfulness,
meanwhile my mind couldst stop not
ringing within me, unspeakable thoughts.
Ah, thee, thou made me shriek, thou slapped me awake;
And thou steered me away from any cruel dreams, and lies
these variegated worlds ought to make.
But still I hatest myself now, for leaving all of which unspoken,
Though plenty of time I had, whilst walking with thee, by the red ferns;
And every now and then, their branches ejaculated terrific sounds-
But not loud; benign and soft as heartfelt murmurs in our hearts.
And those dead leaves were just dead,
Over and under the gusty tears they had shed,
And their surfaces had been closed,
But as we stormed busily with laughter, along their dead roots,
All came back to life, and polished liveliness, and guiltless temperance.
Ah, thy image is still in my mind-for it is my ill mind's antidote,
With all the haste and loveliness and ardour as thou but ever hath,
Thou art loved, by me and my soul, more than I love myself and the earth,
Thou art more handsome even, than the juicy unearthed hearth yonder.
Ah thee, my very own lover and drowsy merriment at times,
Thou who keepest fading and growing-
and fading and growing over my head,
Thy image hauntest my sleep and drivest all of me crazy,
For justice is not justice, and death is not
death, as long as I am not with thee,
And I shall accept not-death as it is,
for I shall die never without thee,
For I am in thy love, as thine in mine,
And dreams shall no longer matterest,
when thy joys are mine-and fiercely mine,
I am blinded by urgent insecurity,
That occurest and tauntest and shadowest me
like a panoramic little ghost,
Massively shall it address me,
Painstakingly and, in the name of justice, ingloriously,
And shall them address my past and destroy me,
For I hath carelessly let thee fade from my life,
And enslavest and burdenest my very own history,
For in which now there is no longer thy name,
ike how mine not in thine.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
Still thou art gentle as summer daffodils,
Thy image slanderest me, and its fangs couldst kill.
Thou owneth that sharpness that threatens me,
Corruptest and stiflest me, without any single stress,
And charming but evil like thy thirsty flesh.
Ah, still, I wishest to be good, and be not a temptress,
though all my love stories be bad, and
endest me and shuttest up in a dire mess.
I feelest empty, and for evermore t'is emptiness
shall proudly tormentest and torturest me,
Stenching me out like I am a little devil,
Who knowest but nothing of love nor goodwill,
I needst thee to make everything better, and shinier,
In my future life, as later-in my advanced years,
As death is getting near, for more and greater
shall my soul hath accordingly stayed here.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
Thou art my summer butterfly and beetle,
I shall cloakest thee with sweet honey and sun,
And engulfest thee safely and warmly
under the angry sickly moon.
I am thankful for thee still, for thou hath changed me,
For thou made me see, and opened my flawed eyes
Thou enabled me to witness the real world;
But everything is still, at times, beyond my fancy,
For they keepest moving and stayest never still,
Sometimes I am, like I used to be, astonished
at the gust of things, and the way they grossly turned
Their malice made my heart wrenched, and my stomach churned
What I seest oftentimes weariest my bosom, and disruptest my glee
And still I shall convincest myself, that I but needst thee with me,
Thee to for evermore be my all-day guide and candlelight,
Thee who art so understanding, and everything lovable, to my sight.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
If thou wert a needle then I'd be thy thread,
If thy rain wert dry then I'd makest it wet.
But needst not thou worry about my rain;
For 'tis all enduring and canst bear
even the greatest, most cynical pain.
Ah, and thus I'd be thy umbrella,
Thou, whose abode in my heart
is more superfluous, and graceful-
than my random, fictitious nirvana;
Oh, thee, thou art my lost grace,
And everyone who is not thee-
I keepest calling them by thy name,
How crazy-ah, I am, just like now I am, about thee!
Ah, thou art my air, my sigh, and my comfortable relief,
And in my poetry thou art worth all my sonnets, my charm,
and forever inadequate, affection!
And only in thy eyes I find my dear, effectual temptations,
As under the hungered moonlight by the infuriated sea,
Who standeth strenuously by the peering strand of couples,
Thou evokest within me dangerous eves, and morns of madness,
Thou makest me find my irked melody, and vexed sonnet,
Thou made, even briefly-my latent days gracious,
Thou made me feelest glad and undistant and precious.
Thou art a saint, thou art a saint, though thy being a human
intervenest thee and prohibitest thee from being so;
ah, and whoever thinkest so is worthy of my regrets,
and the worst tactfulness of my weary wrath;
For thou art far precious, more than any trace
of silverness, or even true goldness,
Thou art my holiest source of joy,
and most healing pond of tears;
Thou art my wealth, virgin trust,
and my only sober redemption;
thou art my conscience, pride, and lost self;
Thou art indeed, my eternally irredeemable satisfaction.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
I adorest thee only-my prince, my hero, my pristine knight;
Ah, thee, thou art perfect to my belief and my sight,
Thou who art deserving of all my breath and my poetry;
Thou who understandest what kindness is, and desires are,
Thou who made me seest farther but not too far.
Thou who art an angel to me-a fair, fair angel,
Thou who art beguiling as tasteful tides
among the sea-my courteous summer sea,
Thou who art even more human than
our fellow living souls themselves;
Sometimes I think thou art courage itself-
as thou art even braver than it, the latter, is!
Thou art the sole ripe fruit of my soul,
And my poetic imagination, and due thought;
Thou art the naked notes of my sonata,
And the naughty lyrics of my sonnet,
Thou art everything to nothingness,
As how nothingness deemest thee everything;
Thou makest them shy, and dutifully-
and outstandingly, changest their minds;
Thou art a handsome one to everything,
Just as how everything respectest, and adore thee.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
By whose presence I was delighted, as well my breath-dignified,
Ah, my love, now helpest me define what love itself is;
For I assumest it is more than fits of hysteria, and sweet kisses
Look, now, and dream that if death is not really death
Than what is it aside from unseen rays of breath?
For love is, I thinkest, more handsome than it doth lookest,
For in love flowest blood, and sacrifice, and fate that hearts adorest
But desiccated and mocked as it is, by its very own lovers
That its sweetness hath now turned dark, and far bitter;
Full of hesitations engulfed in the best ways they could muster;
O, my love, like the round-leafed dandellions outside,
I shall glancest and swimest and delvest into thy soul;
I shall bearest and detainest and imprisonest thee in my mind,
But verily shall I care for thee,
ah, and thus I shall become thy everything!
Let me, once more, become obstinate-but delirious in thy arms;
let me my very prince-oh, my very, very own prince!
Doth thou knowest not that I am misguided,
and awfully derogated, without thee!
Ah, thee! My very, very own thee!
Comest back to me, o my sweet,
And let me be painted in thy charms,
o thee, whom I hath so tearfully,
and blushingly missed, ever since!

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
I loveth thee adorably, and am fond of thee admirably,
so frequent not outside when all is dark and yon sky is red,
For I hatest justification, and its possibly hidden wrath;
I hatest judging what is to happen when our hearts hath met,
but how canst I ever knowest-when thou choosest to remaineth mute?
Then tearest my heart, and keepest my mouth shut
O thee, should this discomfort ever happenest again;
Please instead slayest me, slaughterest me, and consumest me-
And lastly let me wander around the earth as a ghost.
Let me be all ghastly, deadly, and but penniless;
Let me be breathless, poor, imbecile, and lost-
For in utter death there is only poverty,
And poverty ever after-as no delicacy nor taste,
But I shall still dreamest as though my deadness is not death,
for I am alone; for I am all cursed, without thee.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully cherished,
To thee whom I endorsed, and magnified,
My heart, ah-my poor heart, is still left within thee,
Just how weepest shall the leafless autumn tree,
Waiting for its lost offspring to return,
and be liberated from its pious mourns;
And as I hearest their shaky, infantile chorus,
I shall but picturest thee again, thus;
Thy cordial left palm entwined in my hand,
Strolling with me about the leafy garden.
A joyed maiden having found her dream man,
a loving man swamped deeply with his love, for his loyal maiden.

I painted flowers on the wall
I drew my dream house on the door
I created a picture puzzle on the floor
Played them all by myself
My nanny didn't understand me
She didn't learn about creativity
She just stood at a corner watching me..
I just hoped for a second she would join me...

A lonely child I was...
Talking to myself, mumbling, singing...
Playing with my imaginary friends
I built this magic land out of imagination
I was the queen, the king, the prince , the princess..
Just to mention a few human characters...

Every time I stepped into this mansion
It grew bigger, slightly bigger than before...
Every time I was taken outside, Which was hardly,
My eyes hurt, my skin cried in pain...
My nanny rushed me inside..
The door was closed before me...
She bathed me quickly,
Rubbed ointment on my skin,
Dressed me and put me to sleep
The next day I was told again to play all by myself
again in this creepy dark room

The thing about
        drinking,
at least for me
                              is to get to that blissful, buzzed state
where colors are better,
       the cheap whiskey in my dirty cup
is suddenly
                   poured from the finest casks
of a looser Bacchus.
Then there are those sirens,
               painted like indecisive chameleons
beneath
                    those chaotic exploding lights
green, sapphire, electric crimson
                                showering us, and we're all wet with it.
My tongue is honey,
             my teeth flashing out in the spastic
               polychrome
       half-lights.
Eyes wolf-like
       staring into theirs all sex-magnetic.
She presses against me
                                           and I whisper something sweet
and she falls into it
   like a daydream
                           or a fever
The whiskey and the gin gild my throat
     and I feel like a fucking prince.
                                                             ­  Then another shot. Another drink.

And I feel it all
            slip
                  ing
away.

So I drink and I drink and I drink
      trying to get it back
            until those colorful light bulb flashes
          all blend into some horrible, disorderly
painter's palette.
                 Those beautiful
                                              sirens
no longer singing,
                                          have all turned their backs on me.
So I become
                   choleric.

This bar is ugly,
    this whiskey cheap,
       these people fools.

And I start to hate it all, I tell myself
                                   But I know, deep within the

maelstrom of alcohol and bile,

                                                             ­         I hated it all from the start.

It’s the gold that is fused through the years a different fort Knox it is powerful it is all consuming and
Refreshing its buying the best earth has to offer with never entertaining the idea of selling it is secure
The stronghold of lovers the pen marks and distills adoration captures the enthralling
Qualities showing one to be a true prince and a true princess it is spellbinding creates the flow
That alone allows two separate beings to intermingle fused as one leaving a testament more
Enduring than marble can anyone match or make such facts that endure through the mapping
Of one’s person the details of their humanity revealed in the most loving description never to
See hair so gorgeous lips so luscious eyes that you only want to linger in their gaze for ever
Arms hands and fingers for the bliss of touch that melts your whole being the surrender that
Defines cozy to the ultimate excess what wonder is experienced by couples who through
Committed love have found the fragrance of the rose it is the rarified air they alone breathe
From these dizzying heights they draw themselves back to earths plane when they pick up the
Pen and with honesty born from delirium they write with utmost tenderness I love you a gush
Of wind is set in motion pleasure captured as it describes rapture of being held in your arms
When you speak it is nature breathing you hear coursing water the tree branches are swaying
You have entered a gulf that is fixed there you both are suspended the drifting clouds soften
Your brow is smooth the painter would and follows such sites to create masterpieces and this
Is Common among you all things are in harmony truly the cooing of the dove forlorn exquisite
Brooding enlarges your hearts you drift among the sacred forever without effort the enhancing
Advancing years what abiding how far can wonder be stretched it is between these two pillars
That lovers know the pen and the rose wakefulness is for living the dream sleeping is for
Magical conferment boundless endless twist and turns of greatest delight thanks for your love
My dear what joy and happiness you have made in my life how fortunate all of us are that are
Loved and love and His love for us will never end in this we are in a mighty fortress first we have
Each other then it is all enriched and made alive by pure love from above

Sometimes I feel that I want something more,
Then sometimes I'm content to lie down on the floor,
And I can't help but wonder
If this is all that I've been searching for.

Just an inadequate place to lay my head,
And foreign surroundings to make up my bed,
Then I can't help but wonder
If this is a scene from a book that I've yet to have read.

The first time I went to Disney World,
And we were crossing a bridge,
I asked, "Is this all some part of a story?"
And my grandma said, "Of course it is!"

She was referencing Cinderella.
You know, the one who met that charming prince,
But I was talking about all of life,
And I've felt misunderstood ever since.

I've been told of love stories but what happened to all the mistakes made along the way?
Those stories of passion turned to regret...
Fondness turned to hatred....
What about being screwed over after being screwed?
Am I supposed to believe that fairy tales are all that exist when I observe what reality really is?