Eleanor lives in house number three
And walks through her garden there
It's the place where she always wants to be.

There's a swing outside hanging from the tree
That she and her neighbors share,
Eleanor who lives in house number three

Eleanor and her friends squeal with glee
As they take turns flying through the air
It's a place where they always want to be.

As she swings she imagines what it's like to be free
And to live a life without any cares
In a world away from house number three

She tried to beg and she tried to plea
Now children only play there on a dare
It's a place where no one wants to be.

Eleanor tried her best to flee
But he caught her by the hair
Eleanor lived in house number three
And that's where her soul will always be.

An icy storm howled and groaned about me, whipping the trees to and fro in its insatiable wrath. Sheets of rain poured from the murky sky, a torrent of water and wind pummeling my aching body.
I felt so small as I stood in the midst of the raging storm. So small and useless.
What was I but a mere ant, an insignificant worm in the face of this world? How could anything as small as I carry a ripple?
The world would still wage its wars, blind to the evil it was; injustice and oppression practically embroidered into the fabric of existence. Rulers would still dictate and control. The poor citizens would suffer in their poverty as the higher up drowned in their riches. Those who stood up and spoke out against the nobles were persecuted for questioning authority.
And so it seemed to me as if nothing we ever did would make a difference.
Lowering lashes glimmering with dew, I let the rain wash over me.  It seemed an ironic time for a storm, and I wondered if maybe the world was crying—lamenting over what humanity had come to.
“Why are you standing out here amid the rain?”
I took a ragged breath before turning around, blinking water out of my eyes. Eleanor stood behind me, leaning against a jagged pillar and studying me with an inscrutable expression.
“I thought I’d find you out here.” She said and pushed herself off the rock to face me. Her curly dark mass of hair was plastered to her face, and her fierce hazel eyes glimmered with condensation. “Moping won't get you anywhere you know.”
I shook my head at her. “I’m not moping.”
It was easy, easier than it should have been to slip on the masquerade, to look as if there was not a care in the world. The recent ordeals had left me drained and numb.
Eleanor threw her head back and laughed loudly. “I know moping the moment I see it. Now, spit it out.”
I clenched my fists in the pockets of my thick coak. “I am simply debating the best course of action to take from here.”
She grinned humorlessly. “You little liar. I see right past your guise down into your soft little heart. You can't-fool me, Flynn, I’ve seen more in this harsh world than someone twice my age.”
I tried to push the smoldering anger away, but her words sparked an inferno. She had no idea, no idea, of what I have gone through. How dare she make rash assumptions off of her own feeble experiences?
“You know nothing of what I have endured,” I said quietly, eyes flashing as I met her gaze.
Eleanor took a few steps closer until she was nose to nose with me. I could count every freckle on her bronze skin, every eyelash.
“You don’t sit around waiting for things to get better, you do something about it.” She whispered fiercely. “The world won't change itself, things won't just automatically get better. Everything that lasts takes time.”
Eleanor turned around and faced the setting sun; the sky lit up with the hues of the sunset. Her silhouette composed an impressive figure against the horizon, glistening with raindrops from the dull drizzle that now swept over the distant mountains.
“Someday,” she breathed, “you won't have to hide.”
I stared at her, enraptured at the quiet strength that overtook her features as she gazed out into the distance.
Eleanor twisted around again, her face somber. “Someday the world will accept you for who you are. But don’t wait for that day, don’t wait up for them—beat them to it and accept yourself now.”
A small beam of trembling sunlight entered into the suffocating darkness, thawing away at the ice that had slowly taken over within. I felt something I had not felt in a long time.
Hope.
Overwhelming in its promise and almost tangible to the imagination. I knew it was far away, farther than the length of the stars and back. And though everything was against me, though I would be met with opposition and suffering—would anyone else raise their voice for change?
I opened my eyes and found them full of the sun. “To an new dawn.”
Eleanor flashed her teeth in a voracious grin, her eyes full of promise. “To a new future.”
I held my breath at the words I would say; terrified my wish would disappear once uttered aloud. “To a world where those born of darkness, can shine just as bright.”

-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-

Your smile is a million suns
The galaxy never knows night
When you're happy.


-- Eleanor

Eleanor P. Carney sat with her legs folded,
Casually reading a catalogue
As she waited. Her mind drifted
Effortlessly away from Joe until:
"Come this way"  said a voice dimmed,
In light of the current situation.
The click of Ellie's t-strap heels
Turned the heads of many
Beauty parlor goers, as she
Was lead to a back door.
A *** of boiling water hosted
Sharp things for slaughter.
"Now, I have to ask,
On account of virtue,
Do you really want to do this?"
The beauty practitioner who
Practiced more than beauty, stood in
The corner, tying an apron
around her thin waist.
Eleanor P. Carney shook  her head,
And sat down on the
Cold counter knowing that
She would not regret this.

Ruth L. ****** struggled everyday
To find new ways to disgust herself,
But the lack Ms.Carney's
Shame and guilt would
Do just fine for today.

It's not love that leads to disappointment
But rather attachment.


-- Eleanor

Your love for me stops
Where her lips begin.
My love for you lives
In every place we've been.


-- Eleanor

I feel like a stranger
Stuck in another stranger's body.


-- Eleanor

He stabbed me in the back
And **** ***** me.

A lover?
No. Love itself.


-- Eleanor

1.As the sun rubs its eyes, rise and shine. Thank God for today. Open your windows, and say hello to the birds. Admire the canvas drawn in the sky. And now, get ready to fly.

2. Turn off your gadgets, go outside and take a stride.

3. Get lost and wander into the sea of tides. Find yourself. Your dreams, goals, passion, the positive and even the negative side. After that, you may enjoy the ride.

4. Keep a journal and write what's buried deep. Good or bad things, it's part of life. Get up, dust the dirt, and try. Reflect on your scribe, and learn to inspire yourself as time goes by.

5. "I speak to everyone in the same way, whether he is the garbage man or the president of the university."-Albert Einstein
Love the ones who treat you right. Stop the fight and let's unite. Acknowledge their goodness rather than the differences. Stop judging and start accepting flaws, because everybody makes mistake.

6. Life is too short not to appreciate. Simple things matter. You never know what you have until it's gone right? Sometimes, you just have to screech your wheels in an open highway and feel the air. Take off your sandals and walk in the coast. Wait for the sunset and fathom how the horizon gives life to the vivid sky.

7. Let your tears stream down and wash out your mascara. You feel like dying? Take away the blade and just cry. Let it go. Release the pain that has built inside. If you're done, wipe away the tears. Look yourself in the mirror and be a warrior. Learn from your mistakes, forgive people, learn to smile :))

8. Yes, smile. It makes you happy. It makes others happy too! So, if you're reading this. Congratulations! You're alive. That is something to smile about, no doubt.

9. Be healthy. Run an extra mile, flex and stretch for a fresh start. Dump the pills together with your misty dark thoughts. If you lost yourself somewhere in the darkness, you can find it. It may not be that easy, but every war has an ending. It's called beginning.

10. “Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.” -my fave line in Rainbow Rowell's, Eleanor & Park.

The way Eleanor dresses—men's clothing, bright colors, even fishing lures in her hair. Her bright red, curly hair, freckles, and curvy figure all combine to single her out for bullying, so her own appearance is a huge factor in her everyday life.

THE THING IS: BE YOURSELF. Eleanor dresses the way she wants, to be different. Don't mind what other people say, cause in the end it is you, not them. And hey! We are all beautiful, we are strong, we are worth it. That's what makes us special. Stop wishing you looked like someone else, stop hating your body, your personality. Love yourself a little more every day. And for sure, someone will love you just the way you are :)

(a.k)

"look at all the lonely people"
i waltzed into the desolate church on the corner of a street in a town i didn't know the name of.  i've turned into one of those people who spends time in cathedrals on their days off in towns i've never heard of, due to loneliness, mostly.  to my surprise, there was a young lady halfway sitting and halfway standing in a pew next to a stained glass window. her breathing was heavy, i could hear her across the room.  she had a somewhat horrified expression on her face, which was pale and almost ghostly.  she looked so dejected, it was absolutely heart-rendering. once i took a step towards her, the priest of the old church appeared and told her she had to leave her sad state and her pew next to the stained glass window. her melancholy expression remained as she walked slowly out of the church, letting the wooden door slam behind her, never once looking up at me or the priest. he took his place in the exact same spot this young girl was in, and began to write words in a small leather journal with a quill pen. i turned around and left, and decided to come back at the exact same time i did the next day, in hopes to relive the past few moments.
--
as promised, i promenaded down the center aisle of the pews in the church, the carpet crackling under my feet, due to old age, adding to the sense of eeriness that lurked through the establishment.  the young girl was not there. i sat in the pew she sat in the day prior, in hopes of her walking in once more.  i waited for hours, and she did not show.  i faintly heard the sound of a violin just as the priest walked through a door near the altar.  his hands were covered in dirt, and i was curious.  i approached him.
"hello, father. might i ask why your hands are so *****?"
"ah. you're the man from yesterday." he said, a slight glimmer of fear in his eye.
"yes, that is correct."
"you seemed to be quite fascinated by miss eleanor." it's almost as if he knew how intrigued i was by her, although i didn't know her name until now.
"eleanor? the lass from the day prior?"
"indeed. well, it upsets me to break this news to you, but my hands are battered with dirt because i've just come back from burying miss rigby in the cemetery."
"you mean there was no formal ceremony to celebrate her life? what is the matter with you?! how did she die?"
the priest looked me dead in the eye, and spoke the chilling words in a completely monotone voice.
"she was one of the lonely people."

I thought I forgot you
I thought I long had you buried
Deep in my memory.
I thought you could no longer haunt me
Like you used to do so often.
I thought I got over you
Until your eyes met mine today,
Once or twice at most and that was about it.

I couldn't look at you,
I couldn't look at you without bursting into tears,
So I burst into laughter instead.
And I suppose that you saw through my fake act.
Anyway...

You were there in your corner,
There in your pedestal,
There in your elegance
Drawing something dangerously beautiful
And you were beautifully dangerous.
And I,
I could only watch you from a distance
And learn to admire you
Without touching you,
Without kissing you,
Or ******* you.

We exchanged a conversation
About random things
You know, like
How it took me about an hour
To take a proper picture of the cat you gave me,
How it tragically died,
How I didn't cry when it died...
But I actually did cry when it died...

You looked all right, seriously.
There in your peaceful world
That I no longer was part of.
There in your artistic mind,
There in your capacity to forget,
There in your tendency to break promises,
There in the awful effect you always have on me.

So you said goodbye
Because you had something to go back to.
I said goodbye
Even though I had nothing to go back to.

We parted ways once again,
Me with your drawing pencil in my bag
And you, you my dear, with a piece of me
Inside your pocket.

I remember you once said forever, but you only lied.
I went home,
I went home and cried.


-- Eleanor

She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.”
― *Rainbow Rowell, Eleanor & Park

I sailed you
Like an ocean.
And you were
As blue,
As deep,
As dangerous.


— Eleanor

Memories, just faded memories
                                                                                                                                        By alan spivey

Looking out my window, Eleanor is playing on the old rope swing that’s hanging down from the old oak tree.
Mary is walking up the steps from going into town to open my front door. The horses are whining and ready to rest from their long   ride. The carriage so black and shiny stands there with pride.
The Calvary just passed on their way to who knows, since I can’t move to see what’s going on, my bones are crackling I am getting old.
Memories, just faded memories,
Eleanor isn't there  the swing has fallen years ago the old yellow ribbon  Mary tied  for her husband  who never came back home only a little piece  still shows on that old oak tree.  
My doors swing open and closed with the wind, my window has since been broken. I ..  I still see Mary and Eleanor but they never come through my doors or play on the old  swing.
They just fade away like faded memories.
I am  old my bones are crackling  I am falling down  more often for I am their house I am whom Mary’s husband made for her before he  went to war.
Memories, faded memories

You looked me in the eye
With the same smile you gave me
A long time ago.
You let me order your coffee for you
I knew which one
It's still the same
From a long time ago.

I laughed about the jokes you told me
You laughed at how unfunny
Mine were
And you playfully hit me
I frowned, you laughed,
I laughed, you laughed again
And said sorry
Just like you did
A long time ago.

The worst of it all
Was that when your hand
Accidentally brushed mine
I shivered
Just like I did
A long long time ago.


-- Eleanor

Esoteric Eleanor...
Is a woman set apart
She has an obscure interest
In a certain type of art.

She collects her little fairies
Has an interest in old tomes
Has few, if any, closer friends
Has tons of garden gnomes.

She owns a run-down mansion
With lots of dusty rooms
Her letters closed with sealing wax
She speaks in garbled runes.

She met her fate one cloudy day
Oh yes, she is quite dead.
Her foot slipped on the marbles
That spilled out of her head!

Yes, she lost her footing
Alas, she is no more
Lies within her antique coffin
Esoteric Eleanor.


Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/15/2019

poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.

I looked at you
The way an artist
Would look at a naked woman.
Your bottom lip was designed
For kissing,
Your hands for crafting,
And there was a picture in every moment
I have shared with you.

I saw that we fit together
So very perfectly,
But the subjective camera
Was only me.


--Eleanor

All the lonely people* wander in the night,
clothed in all their misery and hiding from their pain.

All the lonely people hunt for what is right,
devil in their hearts as they sleep out in the rain.

All the lonely people beg, "Stay and love me do."
Lonely people are everywhere, and Eleanor Rigby never knew.

I wrote to you in broad bold letters.
I wrote it on a tree.

You know the one, remember
—it called to us from the middle of the garden.

Sassafras: our secret token.

Winter's stillbirth is soon upon us,
and our placement in the sun in peril.

But I have whispered it all to stones
now ****** into the sea.

Remember the tree, and pray I live long enough to dream in its hollow.

I can't sleep tonight;
I am longing for a message.


--Eleanor

I can't sing,
Or play the piano.
I can't draw
Like you do.

But I love you.


-- Eleanor

We are sinking with the ship
The oars have gone to ****
Now we only have four arms to row
The sea's tide carry us from the landslide
We sleep with the fishes tonight
So just let the boat sink below

And I'm so high
But Eleanor, would you mind?
Talking to me like you've know me all your life
And it's fine
Eleanor, could you find
Some of the orange warm light
Or maybe make it mine

The brown ground is soft under our feet
But sinks us into the street
No branches to pull us out
So our lungs leak air and swallow dust
Now I know what must be done
I have a feeling you do too

And I'm so high
But Eleanor, would you mind?
Talking to me like you've know me all your life
And it's fine
Eleanor, could you find
Some of the orange warm light
Or maybe make it mine

If you could try
I hope you will sleep tonight
But if you don't that's just fine
Because you've got yours
And I've got mine

I totally adore
How you blend in the crowd
But when we're alone
You become you.


-- Eleanor

I gave you the key to my heart
Even though the door was already
Open for you.
I was naked and vulnerable
Before your eyes
And I was fully dressed.
I was yours
And you weren't mine.


--Eleanor

She struts through her town
Chin up
Hair down.
Trying to hide
Her skinned knees.
She doesn’t want the world to see
The only evidence she bears
Of when she finally fell.
Tripped, stumbled, whatever you want to call it.
She could hold herself up no more.
Gravity overcame her
Truth overcame her
Life overcame her.
Her back bent
Her knees buckled
She tried to scream
But no sound came out.
Her one moment of weakness
Left her with scars
Unseen
And ****** knees.
How do you come back from a fall like that?
She built herself up for years
Like a mountain ever growing,
A trophy never rusting.
She shined her shoes,
She brushed her hair
She straightened her blouse
Every day
Trying with all her might
To maintain her image
Of perfection.
She should’ve realized sooner
No one is perfect.
Not a one of us
Not Ghandi
Not Martin Luther King
Not Eleanor Roosevelt
Not even Dr. Suess.
They weren’t perfect
So why was she?
Who is she, that gets to achieve the dream
That the majority of people are treading water just to get a glance of?
A better question would be
Why did she get to do such a good job
Of hiding her imperfection.
She walked everywhere with a bottle inside
Holding everything in
Nice and tucked away
Like a child at bedtime
Hidden
Safe and snug
Where no one could see it.
She pulled it out only in the wee hours of the morning
While sitting by herself
At the top of her mountain
Where she sat
And wept
Silently.
When the rays of dawn would peep over the distant horizon,
She would wrap the vial up
And swallow it again
Down into the depths of her soul
To remain hidden
To keep her secrets safe
To keep herself upright and a-okay in everyone else’s sight.
This went on
And on
And on.
Until one night
When the moon shone bright
And the stars and constellations shone around her head.
She went to examine the newly expanded contents of her secret container
When she realized the stars weren’t shining solely on her soft
Perfectly parted hair.
Someone else was there with her
But it was too late to put the ampoule away
It was already out, see
And in plain sight.
She fumbled,
Caught off guard, she dropped her flask.
She jumped to catch it but it was already rolling
She chased it.
Down the mountain they went
A bottle
And a girl
Moving in tandem
One no faster then the other.
She tried to slow herself down as they approached the base
But it was too late
The momentum was too great
She tumbled headfirst
Her knees hit the ground
At this speed
Grass feels like concrete.
Green stains on her elbows,
Blood on her knees.
Water marks down her cheeks.
The higher you build yourself up
The longer you have to fall
As she discovered the night the constellations revealed her façade to another.
No one’s perfect
No matter what they seem
You never know
Who, at nightfall, screams.
This young girl learned her lesson
It’s better not to hide
And now she struts around
Showing skinned knees
With pride.

They're brown.
Earth-colored, if you will.
With a slight tinge of green, if you hang around long enough.
But there's more.
There's history, of a tragic sort.
I doubt you'll stay around long enough,
To watch everything unravel.

6 letters.
I'm not some Nabokov beauty.
Well, technically, by age, yes.
I don't go for the older sort.
It was a term of endearment,
But now, it's pure rage.

5'3".
I have a tiny frame. Smaller than most.
I'm not intimidating.
You can pick me up, and throw me down.
(Though I'd prefer you wouldn't.)

32.
Battle wounds. They tell my story.
All over.
Wrists, forearms.
Thighs, hips, ankles.
It's too easy.

13 years.
13 years filled with pain and insanity.
Filled to the brim with memories.
Terrifying memories of watching *****-induced tirades.
They were so oblivious to my cold breath.

Eleanor rigby. Picks up the rice in the church where her wedding has been.

Lives in a dream. Waits by the window,wearig the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for.

Father Mckenzie writting the words to a sermon that no one will hear.
Looka at him.working.darning his socks in the night when there's no body there. No one comes near. All the lonely people.

I look at all the lonely peopple.