Little blossom in white and red
Resting now your tiny head
Grow and thrive
Be strong and keen
For you will one day be their queen

Little blossom in peach and gray
Grew up strong and found your way
Two things more yet to be seen
Until at last you'll be their queen

today i imagined depression as the dark hole to wonderland, and i imagined myself as alice. i, i am falling. to where: i don't know. why am i falling: well, i took a wrong step.
when i first fall down, i can still see the light. i can still feel happy, i can still remember how to be happy.
but as i fall deeper, i lose sight of the light above. i start to forget the things that made me happy, i lose track of the memories. i am only happy once in a while.
i fall too deep. so deep that i can no longer see the light above. ever. my eyes might as well be closed because at least then i can imagine happy things.
i feel as if i will never experience them again. this hole is never ending.
but there is a wonderland. it is below me. i know that much. but what is it? what does it look like? when do i reach it?  when do i land in happiness and forget the bad things? i've been falling forever.
my theory is that you are my wonderland. you are close, i know it. but you are still so far. you still feel impossible to reach, but i know that you are my destination. you are my happiness, the thing that will me make me forget all the bad things. you are everything i want and you are everything i need.

Roses fall and ******* apart
Aging over time.
Seeming ever so worthless
Was once a shiny dime.
There is no good,
There is no bad,
There's only the gray between.
Beautiful Chelsea grins,
Cloudy dark skies,
With no one to see the green.
"I beg of you"
Said the fool,
As he laughed,
Like a mule.
Mocking me,
The mockery.
The ****** picture gallery.
Love it not,
Love it be.
Love it once
And love it three.
"I don't care"
Said the hare,
"As you be mocking me"
My beautiful little wonderland,
My little picture book.
Lullabies, stories, and poems,
Be your last look

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.

I never understood her.
But then she was never meant to be understood.
She made the complexity and confusion look like a beauty itself.
The craziness around her was too much for anyone to handle.
No one believed in her but me.


*I called her my Wonderland.

You walk the whitened snow
in overcast-shadowed delight
You look back seeing
where your tracks traced you
from where you were before,
like words written on
snowy white paper
holding memories
gone by...

Your mind slowly
backtracks
to places only moments ago,
where small inclined drifs
on each side
reminded you
of miniature mountains,
you were a GIANT
in the middle of a tiny valley...

Sounds became muffled,
your planet became
transformed into another world
Silence prevailed,
brief shrilling sporadic gusts
nipped at your nose, nipped at your cheeks,
and had painted
your living portrait red...

You had felt your feet
crunch down
on the newly
softened snow,
its sounds created noise
that crunched LOUDLY...

In some places,
your wider lifting strides
became arduous,
they became wider in deeper spots,
but you did not mind...

This whitined fact
almost held by fantasy
ridiculed everyday life,
silhouetted trees
reached their bare arms upward
like black grayish winter phantoms
against the white horizon,
against the gray sky...

Tiny windy whirlpools
-ever so often-
danced around your feet
in a soft swirling
celebration
of your delight...

Charmed by your exploration
you had embraced every moment
Clever in your adoration
you now invoke this poem,
distinguished only
for the astute...

...Provoked by this flurry
wisdom and wonderland,
you now turn slowly
around then forward
Now realizing you have
just left your memories
and poet's signature
within those very backtracks
you have just left behind...     .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .' .'

Lucky.

Some people would look at this little life of Grace and think, ****, she is lucky. Of course, you know better, don't you, Wonderland? You know what goes on in my hodge-podge head where the rainbows lament and the killers dance.

So come and tell me what my kiss tastes like. I want to know if the poison is evident or I'm just the one who can feel it.

Skeletons twirl on my walls, and that's not a metaphor. I literally have neon skeletons dancing on my walls. That's just the type of person I am.

No where. That's where we're going right now, with wonderful gibberings of a lost cockatoo, so lost she found herself in a young woman's body.

Lost little Grace, trying to find her place in the world, just like her beloved Alice. Yet Alice was always free of Wonderland at the end of the night. Or was she? She did always gravitate towards the insane place, maybe she's just as trapped as Grace.

Musings of the world as I grow, from young little wide-eyed girl to the woman I am today. A young woman, albeit, a naive, wide-eyed woman with too much hope in her heart, but a woman nonetheless.

The scars of your love leave me breathless. Oh no, no they don't. I hope mine have left you dead.

Still bitter I am how my caterpillar betrayed me. Have I not told this story? How in the dark of the night he found solace in the wings of another, to leave me blind to his deception. Thank the gods the March Hare had the sense to enlighten me.

Now I spend my nights in the arms of other, and I could not be happier. Never one solid man, never one stationary enough to become a character of Wonderland. But there enough so the loneliness does not creep up on me in the waking hours of the moon.

Stars are my companions now, yes, that's what they are. I am always stargazing and sometimes, when I'm lucky, I share my pantomimed sleep with them, pantomimed for of course I do not sleep.

So perhaps I am lucky, for I am a Grace surrounded by stars, and at the moment, I would not have it any other way.

thorns in the thicket of thought and
thistles of the heart's crown makes a bitter tea
which she pours thin for her porcelain dolls
with plaster-of-paris cakes 'n' cookies neatly adorned
with christmas colors daintily painted in blood and tears
the bard speaks the rueful tale with cliffhanger pauses
and excited joyous moments enclosed in the
crisp images of winter wonderland
the bard is a figure of such stories
long white beard and eyes that twinkle like stars
but now that the tale is told
the song sung.....
the bard retires his joyful face in his private room
with its smoky mirrors
and clutter of memorials to his younger days
his words once on the powdered lips of elegance
now are the dirt stained humble man's bread and butter
they were grand stories
they were adoration's to velvet goddesses....
but now they are but thorns in the thicket of thought
picturesque visions of nubile nymph's only sadden the old man
the bard packs away his joyful face
it is for the readers whom he loves
the road weary eyes linger upon her lace
she was a beautiful moment of summer in his winter life
she's now a sacred image protected by
thorns in the thicket of thought