.
•come with me on a
special trip•hop aboard my big ball-
oon • hot air from flame, the canvas would
sip•higher and higher, we won't be back too soon
•the clouds would gently kiss our cheeks • the sun
would bathe our skins with gold• mountains below
seem minute pointing up  with snow covered peaks
•turning oceans into lakes...the world seems to fold
•offering myriad picturesque views from up ab-
ove•from any angle none would lack•lastly
we'll drift...along the currents of air and
love•you could then finally say that
i've brought you on a memora-
ble trip to  the moon...
and safely back•
\         |         /
\       |       /
•••••••••••
I+++++++++I
I+++++++++I
•••••••••••

And she sang - sang to the night
To the moon hiding behind the clouds...*

Waters receding, tears fall like ink,
Damaged within, like a withering flower,
She wrote pages upon pages,
Day and night, night and day.
And as the fire calmed down to embers,
And as the embers forgot the warmth.
Her eyes wet from tears,
Like rain, they fell to the ground.
A quiet girl once sang by the shore,
Her voice sang lovely, the heavens adored.
And when the night crept in as silent as the wind,
Watching the lights in the distance,
She sat wondering why she was alone.
Within those pages,
This poem she wrote, her dreams, she etched between lines,
And her thoughts she painted without err.
Her words gave life,
Her words added color.
Her soul saw love,
Through another pair of eyes.
Her melancholia was the source,
To every picture painted,
To every succinct detail,
About the life around.
This poem she wrote, among the many,
In those pages she filled without fail.
This was her song to sing,
Her story to tell.
This poem she wrote,
About herself,
As she sat by the dying fire,
Looking out at the moonlight,
Dancing with the waves,
Kissing the shore.

when you are eight you will start to become sick of waking
up early to go to church but your mother will drag you
with her anyway and she will always spend too much time on
her makeup so you will both end up being late and the
sweet sickly scent of the perfume she sprays on makes
you sneeze and Sundays will very quickly become
the worst days of the week, this will be when you start
to be ridiculed by all the other girls for having short hair
and this will be when your father starts coming home late
enough for your mother to be suspicious and for the
sound of Frank Sinatra's greatest hits to stop being loud
enough to mask her cries as he hits her for being too **** curious.
Sundays will be when you learn that the devil is an infinite
amount of liars starting with your mother when she says
she is fine and ending with your father when he says
he loves you. now when you are bored you will start to
hide in your closet and pretend to be someone else.
your closet now becomes Narnia, it becomes the rabbit hole Alice falls
into, it becomes Neverland and it becomes the safe haven
your mother's jazz records no longer offer; when you are eight you
will feel the weight of the world stretched out onto your all too
little shoulders, compressed into your mind and a monster in it's
own right that is scarier than the one under your bed because you
cannot find a way to escape it, it lives and breathes inside of you and
it forms a pit in the core of your stomach whenever you see
your mother flinch as your father kisses her softly and later you will
find out that this feeling is called fury but for now it remains
****** into the walls of your mind like a bookshelf at a library
and it surges rapidly like a tsunami and leaves nothing but debris in
it's wake, when you are eight you will begin to dig holes in your
skin with your fingernails to release the pain and the frustration
you feel that causes wreckage inside of you and later on you will
learn to describe this as being cataclysmic but for now you are eight
and you wear your hair in pigtails even though it's much too
short and catch fireflies with mickey mouse in your mind as you
hear frank sinatra's greatest hits become increasingly louder

(h.l.)

Whose going to save me in this dark world
If there will be no prince charming for me?

©IGMS