the bright side
of the moon
is something seen quite rarely
the bright side
of the moon
is percieved as never scary
but let me tell you, dearest foe,
brightness is riddled with woe
happiness is just a myth
and being sane just lasts a blip
when you're stuck inside a mind
where all your thoughts are crude; unkind
wanting to escape this pit
isn't frequent, never a hit
i like being here;
the dark side of the moon
( in fact i'm in my house, trapped in my room )

You are my first love myfamily, my nakama, ma famille.
You, with your dark hair and tired eyes, and your smile
Once, I begged you to 'have a mustache, Daddy! Now I love the way you look, just as you are.

You come to wake me up in the mornings and I throw pillows, shriek, fake sleep. Underneath it all, I'm glad you're still coming even though I should just get an alarm clock, I should just wake up earlier, I should just go to bed earlier.

Sometimes you smile at me with this old smile, as if you're remembering something far away. Your own childhood, perhaps? There's a look in those eyes of yours that are brown with flecks of green and gold, one that makes me blush and fidget and beam because it says 'You're my daughter and I'm proud'.

Sometimes your shoulders stoop with the weight of our family. You bring in the cash, and I respect you for that. For not complaining. For not lashing out. For not getting mad at us. Instead, you fall asleep during the movies we watch. You take walks with us. You cook for us.

Little by little, you pass parts of yourself onto us.I love drawing, Bimo enjoys organizing something, Uri loves sports.We cook together, play together, hang out together.

I don't mind.You're my first love,my dad, and you're a good dad too..
You hold my hand when I feel sick, listen but don't judge. Raspberry me when I wish wish wish you wouldn't, laugh at and with me because choosing one is too hard. You tell bad jokes and make worse puns, like to work with wood, take your stress away by cooking and sleep on the couch too much. Sometimes you're completely oblivious, other times you choose to look the other way and I appreciate that.


You, my dad, are more than just that. You are my first love.
And I love you, for the reasons above and more:")

In the eyes of the earthly
I am still just a bud
I am barely seventeen

But my soul has lived
And through living,
It has died on numerous occasions.

I have scars
That still often
Somehow bleed.

The wrinkles and grey hair
On my heart
Are beyond my years.

Still I cannot figure out
Why a lump fills my throat
On my birthday.

J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.

It's almost seven a.m.
and I can't sleep.
I want to blame the internet,
but we both know
that's just an excuse.
So what do I blame then?
Can I blame it on stress?
What about my imagination?
Why is it so hard to get a good nights rest, lately?
Something once so simple has turned into
the most arduous task.
I want to fix this,
but how?
I've tried counting sheep,
but that only leaves me
dizzy and confused.
I've tried listening to sad songs,
but that just makes me ponder the lyrics
and musical genius.
So what do I do now?
Because surely,
I can't just close my eyes
and sleep.


*~kns