Silly words like daughter and laughter.
Why isn’t dotter and lafter?
Both, moth and mother are confusing.
It all depends on the way you are using
Those mad silly words in our tongue
More bizarre than between and among.
And, of course there are the oughts
And ought nots of enough and thought.
Shouldn’t one sound per word be
Far less typographical insanity?
I mean someone wound a bandage
Around a wound on an appendage.

It’s just plain silliness of a high order.
You fix food for a boarder, not a border.
You can fish for fish, not sheep for sheep.
And, you can’t daydream if you are asleep.
There’s a rhyme about a wood chucking wood
But he only seems to do it if he would.
A dog can bark at a cat on a roof,
Which can be said either like root or woof.
In Britain anyone can go pound on a pound
In America, ground coffee can be on the ground.
And driving a car now your own can be fined.
But finding a free auto is something of a find.
It makes very difficult to tease other tongues.
Not even if you shout at the top of your longues.

Lately we changed things like light and nite
But, not white, night, knight or blight.
We changed you to one letter, a simple ‘u’.
Now, tell me please, was that so hard to dew?
Oh, wait. I mean due. No, I meant do all along.
The way English is, it’s not hard to do it wrong.
Is it its or is it it’s? It’s dependent upon.
What kind of sentence you have going on.
For example if you have an itch on your ****
It’s on your ****, but I’ tell you what.
It’s itch is its own, and needs no apostrophe.
Just one more view how silly things can be.
So, until later, when things get better
We had better do it rite to the letter.
Oh, wait, that’s wright. No write, no right.
See, I got it rite before the end of the nite.

It came back.

It was gone for so long and I had straightened up everything and things were actually even better, and the second my back was turned too long, there it was. The Jabberwocky.

I knew the second I saw it how it had gotten in. I had been in the front, tending to my new garden that I had acquired, with beautiful roses all about. I had never been so happy. And while I turned away, and left my back door open to tend to the outside, it came in and ate all my reserves and made itself at home again.

Unlike before, though, when I went inside it didn’t coax me into letting it stay, letting it swallow me whole. It began to shriek at me and attack me and I was so scared and I kept on telling it to go away, that I didn’t want it anymore but it stayed and fought and chased me through the house, wrecking all the scars I had repaired and pretty new things I had put up since its last visit. It wasn’t until I let it scratch my legs that it listened to my desperate, hollow pleas. It went away, slinking back into the darkness it came from.

I stayed up in my room for a while, tending to my small wounds and thanking God, Gods, anyone for letting me live. I looked around and cuddled into my bed and thought it wasn’t so bad. I smiled and even laughed a little bit. No, the Jabberwocky could not get me now. Things were different. It knew I didn’t want it, that’s why it fought. That’s why it lost.

But eventually, as I finally descended back into the rest of my home, I saw the damage it had caused. The stairway was scarred and scratched, the living room was a terror, and the kitchen worse. It had left me bare, empty, raw once more. I had been careless, reckless, stupid. What had made me think it wouldn’t come back again?

I started to clean, to paint, to polish, trying to rid my house of any of its signature marks. Maybe not fully, leave reminders for myself of its danger, but tidy enough no one could tell just by looking at it. Everything was a dandy cleanup, until I saw my legs again. The Jabberwocky may not have destroyed me, but I had given it something. I had let it have a part of me.

The rage started to build. I had left the door open, I hadn’t made letting the Jabberwocky in a non-option. I had let myself flirt with its darkness a little bit every once in a while, letting it think it was welcome. I had let it scratch me instead of telling it to get out more forcefully, instead of pushing it and fighting it harder. I had given it a token, a present, to make it leave me alone. That only teaches any good monster to come back for more. I had made the mistake, I had made the choice, I had ****** up. I, I, I am selfish, stupid, wrong. It wasn’t long before I was screaming.

My rage was so strong as I angrily cleaned my house that the Bandersnatch caught the scent and almost stopped by. Bandersnatches convince you to take the fire out on those you love, at any drop of a hat. They play practical jokes that benefit them and them alone, laughing their souls off while you alienate yourself. They were good friends of Jabberwockys.

But when I saw it near my back fence, I silenced.

No. No more. I didn’t want any more monsters, not after how long I hid them in my basement and held them in my heart. They weren’t allowed here. This wasn’t their home. It was mine.

So I locked the back door, and closed the front gate, and bolted the first door, and never stayed up too late. When they barged in for my head I was at no fault, and had every right to call for help, but when I let them waltz right in like an old friend I had some blame in my heart. But those monsters of Wonderland, I had never loved. I had merely no memory of a life without them. Now that there is a fence and a door and they’re not allowed anymore, I must do all I can to keep them away. They don’t deserve my heart, nor my head. Though I am a person of Wonderland, I don’t deserve to be dead.

So here we go again, tumbling down a rabbit hole, insistent on trying to find something curiouser and curiouser.

Life is an adventure, and fortunately, or not so much, mine is a constant trip to Wonderland, through the Jabberwocky's lair and the Queen of Hearts' castle and the winding paths to the mad tea party, my favorite place to go. We're all mad here, and I revel in  it.

When I started this journey through Wonderland, I was certain it would be a place I hated, ahbored, feared, vilified. The wonder ****** me in, but once I was aware of my surrounding I didn't like so much anymore.

But now Wonderland is home, where my heart sets its beats and my brain rests its heavy head, where I sing goodnight moon to the stars and sleep in the soft glow of their shine. I love it. I love me. There is no one that this Grace would rather be.

I compare myself to Alice, but I feel more like a sister now, one going through her experiences but feeling differently than she ever would. True, we're both polite and curious and blonde and sweet, but her eyes shine blue while mine glow green, showing her sadness and my envy, causing a utter travesty to Wonderland between the two of us.

I was the girl who turned into the Jabberwocky, and it makes much more sense for her to defeat me. To lead me out of the darkness and into the light, making me remember who I was and who I want to be.

Anyway, Alice is a visitor of Wonderland. Grace lives here, knows nothing but here. She may traverse the human world every once in awhile, but Wonderland is where she has grown, where she will always belong.

For once I see Alice as my friends, my family, those I love. They curiously visit my Wonderland, they see its sights and its horrors, and they only come to visit when there is a great party or a great fear. They do not live here. Only I, only Grace, live here.

Maybe I should be less afraid of bringing another young girl into this Wonderland, for who better to help traverse it than the one who owns it? And if the daughter I bring only is a visitor too, that;s just as fine. As long as the love we have for each other is a shining beacon that lights up Wonderland even in its darkest hours. For her, Wonderland will try its best to be what it was made to be; Wonderful.

And to thank all those who have helped, those who have changed and been curious enough to enter my land so different from their own, I have but one name for the daughter, given I have her.

I'll name her Alice.

I didn't know I'd end up here again, especially so quickly after crashing.

But yet again, my heart is an unexpected, fickle thing.

My hair is *****, just like my hands, for I have as much pain and blood on my fingertips as has been inflected upon my heart. Funny how a small little girl from Wonderland can cause so much pain. Innocence was once on my lips, but then the world killed my brother, and then the Jabberwocky came to play.

But where are my manners? Let me invite you to tea, buy you your last meal before I ravage your body with my teeth and claws and words and terrify you when my green eyes before blood-red with the splattering of you. I hate to make people forgettable, so trust me, it'll be a night to remember.

The demons inside come out to play at night, when my defenses are weak, talking of death so easily, when I know I don't have a heart for killing. I only have a heart for destruction and dismemberment of hearts and minds, not lives.

Grace was once so little and pure and kind, but the second blood red graced her sibling's lips, it was over. The monster had come to reside in her.

Red, green, the colors of my heart. Funnily enough, also the colors of Christmas. Didn't know generosity would share the same colors as my envious, greedy, ****** heart.

I am not a fan of myself in the darkness. Perhaps because I see in the nothing a reflection of my own shadows.

Go to bed, dear Grace, before the monster inside eats you. **** you, Jabberwocky, and all your tricks. No one comes back from Wonderland without a tad bit of baggage.

Don't beware the darkness, beware thyself.

Goodnight.

I haven't been here in awhile. This section of Wonderland is almost foreign to me, after all this time. I have teetered upon its edge for ages, but now I have finally fallen in, down the rabbit hole, and I do not know when I will be able to get out.

The dark parts of Wonderland,  where the Jabberwocky roams free, have terrify me and always will. The simple thought of that monster lurking in my head brings a slew of tears to my face, a torrential downpour of my own misery. I do not trust the Jabberwocky, for it brings ideas, hallow, dark ideas to the front of my brain and causes me to wander in the frozen desert or extract my blood from my own skin, and I do not know myself anymore.

Each word is shaky, I cannot feel it on the tip of my tongue, I am numb. No one here in New Wonderland understands the Jabberwocky; hell, only the White Rabbit and the Dormouse really understood it in Old Wonderland, and my heart still broke relentlessly, like tides on a beach.

Those not from Old have rejected the Jabberwocky side of me, and that terrifies me. What if everyone here fears the Jabberwocky? I understand that fear; no one expects sweet, innocent Grace to also be the monster screaming under their bed, but I need people. I need people who know and understand and accept that tough I can be broken and horrific and abhorrent and repulsive that Grace is still there underneath it all and she needs love. She needs it more than she'll ever admit.

Words. I have lost them. I haven't the faintest clue what's left to say, for the Jabberwocky is ruthless and hateful of my words, and I'm lucky to have gotten this far. In my dreams I am whole, in my imagination the Jabberwocky was gone, but I know now it has not left me.

It never will.

He fell away with his uffish head all full
and he bought what we couldn’t buy him and
he didn’t buy what we swallowed whole
or at least he sold it back or gave it away
for vorpal heresies & novel fascinations

And just like we taught him to ride the red
a few swipes away from bankruptcy and desolation
but welcome and chortled to fail if that’s
easier for now than climbing the Tumtum tree
or trying to make it in this world
well fed - given all to eat and truly loved

It’s curious how the rain gyred down today
and stopped and came again and stopped
because the cadence of his windshield wipers
seemed to coincide with the crankier parts:
only working when there’s nothing left to wipe

We don’t even give two ***** if a Jubjub bird
falls dead and he whiffles away, sword
between his legs (though that is dangerous)
and the beast escapes. He can eat the **** bird
for all we care, but for sustenance, not triumph

But our son is still lost; he’s frabjously
writhing in the tulgey fiber of disappointment
unable to slay even the puniest of borogoves
His melancholy surpasses all comprehension
and he isn’t coming home any time soon

He’s not galumphing back.

What use is a mimsy rhyme to the famished?
How often are we warned, beamishly chastised
of the brillig peril of worrying ourselves
with feeding the slithy soul
when the body burbles, always demands to eat first
and is satisfied by no less
than the frumious flesh of the fatted calf?