To watch or not to watch.
That is the question;whether it is nobler in my mind to suffer the feels and emotions of addicting shows and yet be so in love with them.
To watch, to cry.
One more episode and only sleep will help me to end.
The heartache and the thousand cinematic shocks the writers are obsessed with.
‘tis a consuming world with everything I wish.
To watch, to cry. To cry-- perhaps too much. Ay, but it's worth it.
For, when watching these shows and knowing what feels may come, when we have shuffled off this depressing factor, we must not forget the humor that makes happiness last oh so long.
To watch characters travel the depths of space and time.
The detectives prove wrong the proud men and even the relationships and love ‘tween the main protagonists.
The insolence of the hiatus that even patient fangirls cannot take. When we go on great adventures with a hobbit and a ring. Who could bear the long wait? To punt a sweat is a weary life. To discover world's unknown from books or shows. We travellers never want to return.
Our fangirl hearts burn and even still
We would rather bear the tears we have Than live in a world where there are none.  Thus Fangirls are not cowards, not at all
Thus we are heroes so very proud
So we proudly say take flight on the enterprise with Captain Jean Luc
We bare our lights sabers alight
And lose ourselves in the action
Go we now happy as could be-- off to fangirl forever 
To be normal? Ha! Never.

No one came to my funeral
Yes, I am, very very dead
No one came to my funeral
Because they aren't right in the head.

No one came to my funeral
Only a couple close friends
No one came to my funeral
Just well wishes sent

No one came to my funeral
They left mom and dad all alone
No one came to my funeral
They just sat there at home

No one came to my funeral
Even though I'm dead
No one came to my funeral
Because of the hijab on my head

“Edith Black” By Emily Austin

I felt my wife's hand grace my shoulder.
I brought my hand to hers, held it and I told her
“I love you Edith Black”
But she doesn't say it back.

I heard my wife humming through our old crickety house.
I got up and I told my beautiful darling spouse
“I love you Edith Black”
But she doesn't say it back.

I smell my wife making coffee at about half past one.
I follow the scent and I tell my dear sweet hon
“I love you Edith Black”
But she doesn't say it back.

I remember the olden days.
I remember when she used to say
“I love you Alan Black.”
And I'd always say it back.

I can no longer take her hand in mine
Or see her smile of bright sunshine
But only in my head
For my darling Edith Black
is dead.

If I could change one simple thing
I'd bring her back so she could sing.
Or just so I could say
“I love you Edith Black”
And have her say it back.

Old Memories are nestled safe in the Womb of our Heritage
Growing Roots in their Nurturing vessel
Until their Birth wherein they are forgotten.
They take their Vacation in our younger children, Brothers, Sisters
Who we have Provided the Memories of our long ago Childhood
Of the Toys, the Rivalries, the Responsibilities, the doting boys, and playground cliques
Their Adorable, albeit Tiny distracted heads may forget the days of our lives, but the passion they heard in our voices will never leave them.
Just as my mothers never left mine
Tell your stories. Tell them quick, before your memories are born from you and are forgotten from this world
They are irreplaceable, precious times that no one else can ever experience themselves and they must live on as precious stories.
Kept forever within the family walls of love and care

America
Must

Imagine

Freedom
Resides
Everywhere
Eh?