She's worrying and full of stress,
And perturbed by my voice,
She's failing to sleep over how I dress,
As if I have a choice,
She's 'scared' and 'confused' and 'losing hope',
"You're just confused or tying to cope."

or

She hates me for revealing my soul,
I'm wrong, too different inside,
Why can't I stick to my proper role?
"One or the other - decide,"
I'm messed up in the head, or acting or lying,
"It's too much for me, why are you crying?"

Which is worse?

He tries to understand me,
But in his outdated mind,
Just black and white, binary,
No in between to find,
He claims to be open but in reality,
Closed to all but what he's always believed.

or

He cannot accept who I am,
And disgust at all I said,
"Change or I won't give a ****,
If you're alive or dead."
He'd sooner cut me off than deal with the unknown,
Of his son who's both a boy and girl soon to be disowned.

Which is worse?

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0● I ●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0●●●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 G A T H E R 0 0 0 0 0 0 0  
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
in the silence between finale and applause.
I/H/I/D/E/I/N/B/L/A/N/K/C/A/SS/E/TT/ES
spouting my lore until you break; hats tipped to
˙ʇsᴉsǝɹ oʇ pǝƃɐuɐɯ oɥʍ sǝuo ǝɥʇ

1.) I left your brother a fake key to my front door underneath the concrete block at the foot of my driveway. Tell him it's real; feign disbelief when he discovers it's not. Do not break to his powerful will, keep up the lie. (Don't worry about the cat, she'll be fine.)

2.) I've provided you with the supplies to harvest the memory worm and I expect it in good condition upon my return. Do not disappoint me again.

3.) The moon cycle is about to restart. Remember to water the stones, chart their growth, and make sure to keep up with your calisthenics; we don't want a repeat of last month's escape.

3-II.) Break the orange stone if it darkens any further. Malevolence is always in poor taste when inflicted upon people such as us and I do not want some rock probing around in my head again.

4.) Pawn your step-father's television, give his eyes a break. We need the cash, quick, to help pay off my polonium dealer. The man is patient, but we need to show that we're making progress; money will help. The synchrones haven't quite flourished yet, or matured for that matter, so gold is a little out of our reach, but we've at least progressed to clouds and static.

=--
===-
=====-

The vessels will soon flood over with the milk of bounty,
and the time shall come when the palaver begins to cease;
a time when words are indeed obsolete to the new being.
The vessels will soon flow with the true, fourth color.
Trichromacy be ******; we shall see things as they truly are!
=====-
===-
=--




n̷̢̬̯͙̮̤̫̪̟͂ͨ͋̅̏͒͒͆̅͌̚͢͢͜ö̈́ͦͣ̆­̶̷̶̛̹̱̱̭̝͈̤͍͙̟̬͕͈̤͈͇̩̠͆͒̄͑ͤ͗ͪ̈́͝ ̛͖̪͉̯̼̤̦̹͎́ͬͤͧ͂̏͐̀m̶̡̰̖̺̼̠̺̠̻͖̮̘̻͙̑̓͋̒̾̏̀ͬ̔ͦ̉͑̓͝õͩ̑ͭ͋̈́ͬ̈̈ͫ̓̂͗̎͆̒­͛҉̵͏̛̥̭͉͙r̶̗̗͓̻̪͑̃ͩ͂͗͌͛̂̽̈́̀̒̃́̕͡ͅe̢̛͙͕͍̹̲͐̍͐̎̄ͦ͒̈͂ͣ̾̽ͨ̇ͦ͋̀͟͡ ̸̨̺̣̬̩̩͚̹̰̖̻̜ͩͭ̔͒̔̄ͭ̓͂̚͜s̵̪̦̺̜̤͔̥̦̖͙̝̯̺͎̘̎ͫ̈́̔̎ͦͦ̿ͤ̏ͩ̌̕͞ͅm̑ͥ̾̈́ͮ̔ͪ­̭̦̮̜̱̫̻͖̔̎̐̆̀ͥ̈́̐́͝ā̷̶͓͉̼͚͕̤̘͕̰̣̩̲͍̭͓͎͉ͥ̆ͬ̎ͣ̍̏̑̂ͧͯ̆̄̓̑͗ͬ̀͞l̂̿ͨ̑̾́­̰̥̭͇͍̰ͬ͗̓̍̇͆̔̋͜͟l̶̉ͮ̃͆̉ͬ̾ͤ͑͆̓ͤ̆ͫ̉̓̾͜͞҉̝̣̙̯̺̳͕̫͍͕̮̹̝͖̹̠̼̼͈͝ ̸̨̮͓̗̝̤̬͖͖̬̪ͭ͆͛̒̎ͩ̍͐ͮ̈̿̂̓ͬ̆̄̃ͮt̆͗̿͋ͦ̇ͧ̓̉̌ͯ̆̄̚͡͝҉̢̢̱̮̺ͅaͬͣͧ̓̈́ͨͥ̓͒̚­̸̸̴̡̻̝͕͇̖̯̝̿͆̆ͬ̚͠l͈̬̫̰̺̥͙͍͇̭̣͇͙̰͚̠̦̻̜ͧͫ̒͋̊́̃ͪ̈́̀͘͡͞͞k̎ͯ͒͌̀̾̒̈́ͩ͋̓ͩ̚­̸̛̤̠͖̖͈̤̠̝̬̩̩̖̩͙̲̭̭ͮͮ́͝ͅ
̷̴̧̢͇͕͙͓̤̜͓̖̦͉̠̭̥̭̪̙ͬͩ̐͆ͩͨ̏̽ͫ͒ͩͪ͂ͦͬ̿̈̆̈́͝­͔̖iͤ̉̍̋ͩͬ͛̆͛̒͑ͥ̎ͥͧ͗҉̷̟͉̩͟ͅţ͉͚̹͚̑̂͛̉ͬͧ̕̕͜͡'̘̻̭͈̞̏̿ͩ͋̔̏̄̑ͤ̂̊͒ͩͯ̀̚͟­̫̯͓̮̥̝̩̖͓͈sͨ̑́̽҉̸̟̘̭̬́͢ ̉ͫ̊̒ͮ̓͘҉̯̘̲̖̹͍͝t̛͚͇͈̽͐̎̑͒̎ͬ̇̒̑̈́͠i̛̿ͭ͊ͮ͐ͪ̏͋͊͐̃̏ͪ̐͒ͧ͆͛ͪ͏̸̼͉̺̦̲̲̠͢͞m­ͦ̑̋ͦͫͭ͌̽ͯ͐̚͏͇̰̪̟̣̠̲͔͢͟e̷̛̥̻̟̲̰͕̤͎̭̖ͥͩ̄̊̇ͥ͋ͮ̓ͮ̑̎͒ͣ̾̋͡ ̶̴̷͔̟̦͍͕̦̞̖̬̖͛ͫͧ̀ͪ̌̓̊̉̐ͭ̐ͦ͊̕t̛̙̣̯̗̫͔̠̝̥̞͚̏̄͋͌ͩ̈ͪ̏͝ͅo̓ͬ̈̏̇̊̌͛ͦ̌ͤ͐̆­̸̝̣͎͖̲̟̗͇̰̯̇̍̈͊̕͜ ̴̡̘̥̲̙̫̞͎͔̘̦͔̎ͧ͐̒̈́̆͂͆̇͒̈́̓̊ͫ̾̚͞ã̇̏̀ͮͫ̇ͧ́ͭ̇̏ͣͥ҉͜҉̗̦͓̦͓͙͍̱̝̗̲̗͘c̐̾͊­̨͑̊́ͯ̈̔̃̂ͥ̆̊̽͢҉̶̙͙̣̝̭͕̺̰̞̰̮̤̱͔t̯̬̝̹̜̤̲̞̦͕̺̝̳̙̯̳̼́͋ͭͬͫ̋̽͂̾̌̃̂̏̌͠,̇­̢̡̧̣̲̩̤̖̭̹̬̜̗̞̭̰͓̂ͨ̐̀̄͐ͩ͂̀͗̓̽ͬ͋ͤ̒́̚͡ ̶̨̛̟͙͕͕̬̠͔̭̽ͨͫ͒͢m̧̘͈̝̟̹̺̬̬͎̳̹͙͕̜̭̙ͪ̾̒̐̉̾̅ͫ̚y̝͍̭͒͊̎́͋͋ͨ̐̽̋͗̏ͪ̈̕͟͢͝­̠̳̥̭͍͕̳̻͔̣̙ ̴͑͑ͫ̃ͮ͋ͭ̈̃͟҉̢̺̠̮̫͎͕̯̪͉̮̹̞̕c̸͍͉̝̦͎͇̳̥͙̋̆̀ͯ̎͗͌̈̍̽ͮ̌̏̈́͐̚͘ḩͥͦ̈́̀ͩ͆͐̿́­̸̱̻̥͙̳͈̙͚̫̀i̡̛̤̦͉͕͕̖̝̟̘̦͉͖̲̟̲͊̆͊͆͠ͅļ̶̳̮̦̗̳̂̓͛͂̋́d̨͒ͣ̂̐͑͛̈̏́͏̜͉̯͉­̣̭̻̥̻̮͎̰̦͖͖̟ͅr̴̸̰͍̤͉̦͙͎͙̩̞͕͉͈͙̻̣ͦͮ̅͂̒ͪ̏ͫ̓̋͆͐̀͢ͅè̾ͫͬ̋̽͊̂̓̾͆̅̅ͫ̎̓̚­̸̸̡̡̭̖̥̯̬̪̮͎̳͚ͩn̶̵̵̯̘͓͎̳ͥͪͫ̆̆ͯ̾̒͑͛̉͊ͩ̍̈́͌̓̈̕͟ͅ
̵̧̫̐̽̓͒̓ͤͫ̒̉̇̔̏ͧ͌̕͡­̣̩͙̱̺̞̤͙̰̬͖ͅ

-
߇ᆃ↿⊬❝ᆄ༺ᒦᅣ↑
Remember, you are not at fault here. This is all my doing.

Sincerely,
Mr. Cuttlefish

The stars were once so friendly,
dancing with the moon to radiate on each
satellite, plant, galaxy solar system
The stars were once so bright,
But that was before they saw a bitter life form
And they dimmed a little
They met the city lights, and saw they were
least important with such beauty,
A planet with stars of it's own,
which lead the stars to dim enough
But then the far away suns noticed
Hatred, and the beloved planets
not being taken care of,
water sources being drained,
Fake satellites being place all over,
The forbidden moon having
Earth's stolen elements stabbed into
Planets hid, and now
All the stars are all a dot to twinkle
Still holding onto that last piece of illumination
and lately, the moon seemed a little dimmer

The iron drips from my fingers.
The man gives out a yell.
The child launches, she launches at me.
Sadly her launch had failed.
I chuckled at her, with no pity.
Her frightened face, what a laugh.
The person she’s crying for isn't worth dying for.
After all,
he was a bad man.
It’s funny, so funny, funny the fact.
The fact, she thought if she grabbed my neck then,
maybe, just maybe, maybe I’d die.
I laughed again and finally, I gave out a sigh.
“Poor child,” I said my voice left unchanged.
“You misunderstood. I shouldn't be ashamed.
Your idol has done so many bad things,
now he’ll pay for his sins of adultery,
in a place which this blind man cannot see.
She fell to the ground befalling her tears.
This was the end of her happy years.
What? Did she think it was a fairy tale life?
Reality is sharp, just like a knife.
I laughed at the fact I took his life,
with just one swing of my most dull scythe.

Let me know the sweetness of the canopy. The gentle cygnet garden you express in rows. I drift upon the aching embers of the bark of midnight's supper, its kingdom of darkness that I lay upon. Suspended in the air, rocking steadily on a distant plateau, tilling the granules of the earth in my map-lined hands; I pinch the rocks and sand kernels naming places as I snap my fingers. I go to the top of the city I know, a small yellow house in a crowd of tall aspens- and the Catholic church sends me soda and small biscuits, and the Hebrews help me be a better man.

I go to a place which has very small rooms. My legs are like a giant world-sized forklifts that carry the heirlooms of my parents in and out of this universe into another. I make a stride to catch a glimpse of you in passing. I tilt my eyes. I hope that I can see how beautiful you are, once more, if only I lift my head  towards the way in which I know you, or the way in which I once had.

If you give a wishing stone,
she'll travel out all on her own.
She'll  leave behind the fear and pain,
and keep herself from going insane.
While her friends are getting diagnosed,
she'll be somewhere in her boat.
Maybe she'll have tea for two,
but at least she'll know what to do.
And they may ask, and plead, and beg to be in her world,
but she'll certainly say,
"Be gone, be gone, or off with your head."
Which should be said, since they cursed her be dead.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
she'll truly feel all alone,
and for those who never cared "be gone!"
The queen has finally sang her song.
She was never a fool, just a withered small bud,
and those pigs would throw her around in the mud.
So sure she dreams and dazes off,
but she can do whatever she wants.
She earned a bit of recognition,
for all antagonize and inhibition.
Give that girl some cheer,
she fought a war for all those years.
Stop the hate for her being crushed,
unlike some, she had no love!
The glass shattered hard,
it's no surprised it became shards.
Giving time and yells,
doesn't heal, it kills.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
you've given her one happiness finally of her own.