I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers  
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas

My jimjams are old
And all busted up
There’s a hole in the sleeve
Where my elbow snuck

But they still fit well
Real snug as can be
Though threads from my cuffs
Do dip in my tea

But the buttons still hold
And the pocket still carries
They keeps me warm at night
When the winter tarries

So I pop on my jimjams
‘For I hop into bed
And I curl up real tight
Once my prayers are said

I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas

I'm 25 and my shirt glows in the dark. A skeleton rock on symbol lights up as the world darkens around me. That's always been me though, never growing up fully, and I would never apologize for that result.

Responsibilities ****. Showing up every day only to do it all again tomorrow can get pretty **** tedious and is constantly boring. But when we find the little things that bring light to the darkness, who are we to turn them away. Of course we can't always have the light because we wouldn't appreciate it nearly as much. Sure, we will have those things that take up space, the things that we have to do in order to live, but that is not our definition. Our dreams perpetually change - we have no definition. Our best bet in this world is to find those things that bring light and hold on to them.

So wear that glow in the dark t-shirt, wear those dinosaur footy pajamas, jump in puddles, watch cartoons, eat sweet cereals, draw horribly, sing innocently, get excited about the little things. Because life isn't one whole big thing - it's made up of millions of smaller pieces - collect the good ones.



-t.s.

I watch as you stir
beneath the covers - they are not silk
like you deserve,
yet you wake stretching
and smiling a crooked smile.
And like the deity you are,
you clamour through the kitchen
for a cup of tea
and sit atop a desk
where you speak with the sun
through glances alone.

I like to believe that you are
looking for something
in that red glare of morning
-hope, perhaps love.
And yet, I love you so:
I love the way you unfurl
the pages of a book
like moth's wings
-I love that you know
where all the lost things go
and your habit of brewing a second cup
for breakfast when you laugh
around bites of buttered toast.

I love you most in those moments
when you seem
to hold all of time in your hands.
Before the day begins,
when you are most yourself
-and at your most wonderful.

Soggy, forgotten rotten eggs. Sink side. Gobbledy gnus cruising, fast acting cheetah be cheetah for the eggs are scare and the Time is new. The few are no longer fastened tightly to these hatchlings, the weather is near and all the tides are complicated. I could stand around in my underwear, but there isn't a single night song or nightengale that would hear me. There's a thud on my head and a knock on the door, I can't sing my best, or try to impress thee. All of these letters un rest to the sound of your voice, even in calfskin a vegetarian can begin to have trouble breathing.

To the cables that untie thlemselves to a broom in a paradise, Pacific, galore. Forgot to. Invested. Contained poorl and drunks stowed in the holograms of hand-me-down prisms, here comes the infectuous lonely ol' lamb. This is the ewe song that sings you to sleep, keeps the sweat in your underwear. Where there is hunger there are poor but my gold chants forward to this Armageddon's sway.

If it means it in Greek than it does in cyrillic, if it's toxin you have rotted your bell. Inside my pink, neon briefs is a tale of insanity, where I had tried to squeeze out every ounce of relief that commenced while I was asleep.

There was only ever one of us that ran with the turmoil that romance does. Terminal two, Arizona-flu, carried through the ORD concourse I heard a saxophone tune. Final approach, a yawn. I'm home drinking ***** at 9:00am with my PJs on.