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.

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.

TEA BREAK EVERY OTHER DAY

"Tea?" enquired
the Jabberwocky
pleasantly

"Thanks awfully!"
smiled Alice politely
pleased to take a break

"One lump or
. . . two?"
growled the Jabberwocky

"None, thank you very much!"
Alice replied
in her best mimsy voice.

"I keep changing
dress sizes
these days!"

"Blueberry Bakewell ****?"
smirked the Jabberwocky
mockingly

Alice shook her head
furiously
trying to rid herself of the thought

"Or maybe...."
beamed the Jabberwocky
"Some Callooh! Callay! Cake!”

"Eh...ah...no - YES...FRABJOUS!"
Alice had no sooner
made up her mind but

she changed it again
as her mind kept
jumping around

"I keep hearing voices
. . .reciting me!"
burbled the Jabberwocky

"What! You hearing them too!"
wondered Alice uffishly
"...how....curious?"

"And in languages unknown
'Fushigi no kuni no Aris.'
I can't even speak Anime!"

"And I seemed to be
made more and more of words?"
she stood awhile in thought

"Ok! Mr. Jabberwocky...Miss Alice
curtain up in five please
a child is about to read you!"

"Well here we go
it's brillig again!"
whiffled Alice frumiously

"Maybe this time
I'll win perhaps?"
galumphed the Jabberwocky

"Ha!" said Alice
"You wish...Ha!"
she haa'd again

and then the child
turned the page
and the poem appeared

for the first time
in her eyes
as new as forever

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
As in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwocky, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with it's head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.

-Lewis Carroll

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.

Ballerina stance leaner
porcelain poised demeanor
lined up for a chance at that old 500 gram repeater.
Yeah, a little firecracker,
a little fire eater.
Twiggy figure, ****** fire dome where her little wires teeter.
Excellent muse material
my ***** optics viewed ethereal
Beauty, and she knew it.
Arrogance.
Noted, duly.
Pittsburgh's resident fire ant, with a grace to match her face
And a whole crew of troglodytes racing to get a taste
So thanks Angela Chase;
I prefer the fantasy too.
And thanks to you my chickens won't be sleeping easy in their coup.
Loop Jabberwocky with Calligraphy
and dabbled in polygamy. purpose:
****** cyst bubbles to the surface.
Misinterpret the tongue touching and hand clutching,
you were baby girlie thumb-*******
But thought more than twice about it when it came to dumb-*******.
Pretty face: check
Depression: not yet
Appreciating phonemes, but still a nervous wreck
false carrot tops to bed, awkward with the ***** work.
Near waif redhead. Pittsburgh Boys. the city lurks
It's been a minute since the girl scouts got at me, I bought it.
Hop in the DeLorean tell Lauren that I'm off it.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

Why do we fall
Of all of the things we could do
We choose to allow something to race up
And ****** us away from our dreams,
Into reality
A reality that is hard and painful
Crashing around you
Sneaking up upon you
As floors do when you trip upon them

Why is it that when we chase our dreams
We must be shocked back into harsh reality
Reality jumping at us
Attacking
Pouncing
Demanding to be heard

When reality is upon us,
Why don't we run
Race back to our dreams
Fight for them as Alice fought the Jabberwocky
With dreams and trust and impossible things

Yet we see the reality,
A simple flaw
A crack
And we fall back to earth like stars from the sky.

We begin to give in,
To defer our dreams
We've fallen so many times before
and what for?

Voices fill your head,
Give up
Give in
You were never going to win
What can you do
Just let go
What has dreaming ever done for you?
The are so convincing in our shattered state
We begin to listen to them
And darkness beings to consume us

But once it does,
Someone appears,
A dreamer,
A friend,
Us,
Or
Someone like us.

To remind us that dreams aren't in vain,
To tell us to look up,
The light is breaking throough

A friend
Someone to pull us out of the dark
Show us how to dream again.

Why do we fall?
Perhaps there is a reason after all...
We fall...
So that we can learn to pick ourselves up
And so we can learn to trust in others,
When we no longer have the strength to do so.

Handicap suburban hippies
Cruising like hyenas
Trampoline ******
****** tissues in ashtrays
Natural born riders
Liquid courage makes little peanuts
Alien Nation
Infomercials on mute
Strange thugs and dark markets
Needles and pixie sticks
Under the manmade weather
New types of bullet holes
Slaying the jabberwocky in
The new Transylvania
The Yes monster
Cranium stadium
Swords and roses
Barren space
Insolent minx
Holidays gone bad
Continental drift

Curiouser
And
Curiouser
I follow you
down
  down
    down
      Into the most
       Odd little world of
         Madness and magic
           Jubjub and Jabberwocky
              Red-painted white roses;
                 Such a beautiful adventure
                      I have only dreamt about.
                    Still I'm bothered by how,
                   Even in a place like this,
               You only think of the time.
            My dearest white rabbit,
         I would truly hate to see
     All of Wonderland
  go and
pass
you
by.

Ring, ring, ring, ring.

Water's running down my face, no, tears, their salt is melting into my very bones as I stare at the phone and listen to it, ring, ring, ring...

My caterpillar has finally turned into the beautiful butterfly I believed I dreamed of, only to find myself rejecting him now at every turn. His Grace has grown up, and realized his riddles and rudeness are not the love I deserve, not the one I want, not anymore.

Wonderland has changed, too. It has expounded upon itself, growing larger with newer faces, faces I'm growing to love and cherish more than old.

In the whispering hours of Wonderland, a New Frabjous Face takes my hand and tell me to run with him, and I do. We run and dance and even when the rain is pouring he is still holding my hands and my face and telling me to run and breathe and live so beautifully.

My caterpillar never held my hand in the rain, he always disappeared into the clouds with his booming voice, judging and screaming about his own struggles while I was drowning in mine. Wonderland tends to flood.

Forecast for now though is sunlight with a slight overcast of whimsy.

After the New Frabjous Face, I feel more comfortable in the rain. Maybe it is apart of me, especially since I always beg to go dancing in the rain. Maybe I knew all along the rain was the key to Wonderland.

Caterpillar would be glad to hear I've been forgetting my magical little pills, no safety is swirling through my veins. He always judged me for using them, though he insisted it was my choice. My choice that he disapproved of.

New Frabjous Face and other new friends are new to me, but they makes me feel alive again, like maybe Wonderland can be a happy place again, like maybe the Jabberwocky can learn its place once more.

Ring, ring, ring...

And as the night goes on, I turn away the phone and let it ring, for it doesn't own my heart anymore.

I do.

dead bodies while alive poor Porphyria
strangled by her own hair
which could be no Fairy tale ,
jabberwocky, listens
as does that famous semicolon concise;
By Ezra Pound.
  creepy
innocence or infamous
we all get to sooner.
On to Popeye
"Farm Implements......"
title and poem supplied by Ashbury,
hang  an albatross but don't shoot it
Mr. Coleridge,
it will hang around your neck.

The fire's burning and down, down we go, ashes, ashes, we all fall down. But its a fire I started. Its a fire I like. And not a bad fire, either. Fire always gets the worst reputation, of death, of violence, of an unhappy ending. My fire, though, its a figure entirely different.

Its passion, love, renewal. After all, nothing can grow until the old is gone.

A forest fire has been set upon Wonderland. Grace is anew, Grace is young again, Grace is beautiful. Not particularly in the traditional sense, but in her own sense, in her own light. There is love in her eyes, and its strange, because for once its not only for others.

The fire has swallowed up the Jabberwocky and the Queen of Hearts and all those demons that used to plague Grace, the demons of her past. The past does not define you. I once whispered tick, tock, and how the mouse went dead, but the mouse is not dead, simply grown unto a bird, flying and free.

Grace is still imperfect, her heart is not free of darkness, But she is growing and evolving as human beings do. Funny, its been a long time since she saw her body as a human one. Guess things change with time in Wonderland.

Maybe that's why the White Rabbit always is worried about time. Its a fickle, strange thing,s that runs then stops then screams and never dies, no matter how much you wish it to. Kind of like the Queen, but yet again the fire killed her so who knows what can happen in Wonderland.

Once again Wonderland is Wonderland, at peace and right and dark but always whimsical, always smiling, always Cheshire, even when it wants to frown.

Things are as they should be, with those I love beside me. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. At last she sees.

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.

Always dreaming
Yet never sleeping
She was caught up in a fantasy
She created in her head

Growing older
Yet never growing up
He was always playing
The games where he always wins

She got lost
Wandering in the enchanted forest
And found him
She instantly fell in love
Even when he didn’t offer his heart
And only promised
That he’ll teach her to fly

But she was just a player… a pawn
Caught up in his little game
Just like an innocent fly
Trapped in a spider web of lies

In her pretty little head
She can win the battle for his heart
Cause in a world of talking rabbits and caterpillars
She was the fierce warrior who defeated the Jabberwocky

But as he pulled her out of Wonderland
And brought her to Neverland
He let the pirates with hooks on their hands
Rip the heart off her chest
And served it on a silver platter to the crocodiles

She dragged herself back to Wonderland
Leaving a trail of her own blood
Still believing
Still hoping
That he’ll come after her
But he never did

I killed Jehovah.
Now slay your Jabberwocky
only then - true peace.

run, run, run
run far away
for the battle is no longer play
the king lost his head
the jabberwocky dead
and the witch been slain
the truth is here
but it hurts our fear
our name will never wane
alone is too fragile
so minds not agile
it’s us or them we say
their hearts with no pulse
their lives that repulse
repeated so them we can flay
though many a doubt
bite through and throughout
weakness cries to remain
the king cried red
when he lost his head
but no wincing we could feign
the jabberwocky spawn
no longer wish for dawn
but we still let them go astray
the witch, she loved
but when push came to shove
we disposed of her anyway
so run, run, run
run far away
before the truth comes to say
there is no us
no them to slay
only violence possessed
to avoid dismay

She was so upset, while tears ran down her face.
Her ugly crocodile tears socializing in the corner
Of her Bambi blue eyes.
Biting into whatever muscle feels most like guilt.
My heart I think… but
It still hasn’t thawed
From months of her
frigid shoulder and icy
Glances.
I can’t get past this
instantaneously
Because you decided
I’m worth something in this second.
Cant take that pain again you
Are mentally mad, you said I was nothing.
I’m sorry I keep thinking
You must be on something,
A bad trip, malice
Seems like motive Alice,
But I’m getting the fuuuuccckk
Out of wonderland.
I can’t stand you like this , no bye bye kiss
**** it up baby girl, I know your strong
Then you were just so big…
Now you say your small
But you
Already crushed my world.
You keep spewing words at me yapping,
After this and that, pulling every trick from your hat,
But I wont have it I’m
Not going to be chasing no white rabbit.
No need to create bad habits.
You made me crazy
I’m talking like jabber jabber-jabberwocky
Seriously kid, you slay me.

the first and the single greatest
discouragement from writing
always begins when people
ask you about money,
not necessarily that they want
money, but that they see
art as frivulous, something
to do on the side... and sure enough
most of art is done that way...
on the side... but then such art, what it
becomes, is an expression of chance
opportunism... i mean...
surely there's enough people in
the world that can allow one
man to write a few ******* poems
out, it's not like they're conscripting
young men to join salvation army
in syria or anything as ridiculous as that;
but in all honesty i don't know what
it's all about - first they tell you
to not get in trouble, then they tell
you art belongs in a high school art room,
then they put artists on peddlestools
when all they produce are massive blobs
of colour in a random way, or
make a messy bedroom an art work,
or pickle a shark in a plastic aquarium,
open spaces, strings of metal, ropes
around rodin's kiss... all kinds of airy fairy
bits 'n' bobs... then mediocre seasonal
greetings poetry: rhyme christmas with
business with busy bees with jabberwocky
or something like that -
but indeed the foremost discouragement
people place on you is to get your worried
about money, concerned enough that
you begin to wonder - are they really
chasing their own tail and insert that
serpent-eating-itself into you?
i mean, all the italian renaissance masters
didn't bother with adorments and fashion
for proof of being rich - they had a motto,
only one: we're not a bunch dumb peacocks!
how about i paint you a mona lisa
and make myself shine like gold in rags?!
surely enough modern art, on that
massive scale, in galleries across countries
is obsessed with space, perhaps the lack
of space in real life, the almost claustrophobic,
the sheer number of people on the streets,
all it's fighting is technique and detail,
it's trying to be a child again,
it cannot stomach the fact that old techniques
were never passed on, or if they were
they are like a magician's deception -
whatever that means - i just think that
what modern art has become is almost
architectural - how on earth could
you elaborate on a square is beyond me -
unless of course it isn't, in which case
it's forceful intellectualism:
trying to squeeze out some orange juice
from an old & dry orange.

Each morning as the dew slowly builds up
And gently tumbles down my bedroom window pane,
I wake to find you slipping away. The summer
Shade has robbed your leaves of green,
And I can but watch you wilt and lilt into the grave.
These past two weeks have felt like dreams
That fade in and out of each other during the throes
Of my unending sleep, but I know that this desire
To paint your petals the dark red of your youth
Would only make me mad like the hatter.
Our queen, however, did change her surroundings
As she saw fit, and with, or without, a second thought
She shaped the whole of her kingdom into an arid oasis
Of thought and fancy; a land where lives the Jabberwocky.
So as I dive down this rabbit hole, I do not fear
What I might find below.
Instead I save my anxieties for what is known,
Like that one day you will no longer be my rose,
But a pile of memories about my bed.

Dear Person I Despise Most,

God, I am on the brink of the best year of my life. I have just finished my first novel, and I actually think I might try to publish it. I have a gorgeous, ****, wonderful boyfriend of almost a year who deserves every bit of my love. I have great friends who don't expect me to be anyone but myself, and don't judge me when I get a little crazy. I am going to be in writing classes learning new skills that may not always help me write better stories, but make me more creative and bold and strong. I am starting my second year in a place that has made me such a better person, and I love all of it.

And on the eve of all that glory, I relapse.

Not those **** Jabberwocky thoughts, not even the little cuts that keep them away. But you. ******* you.

I don't know what I thought I'd expect when I told myself I'd just "check on you for a second". I should have known better. I should have known some sick part of me loves being angry and upset and hate you for thinking such stupid things all the time. For being so pretentious and entitled and sickening.

I was annoyed enough when I read your obnoxious posts about how gorgeous and hot and wonderful your boyfriend was. You guys break up every three minutes and still you fawn over him like a god.

But I digress.

I thought it was harmless. That nothing would come of it. That this would just be a little bit and probably the last time and no big deal.

Then you said it. You said you spent a year keeping someone alive.

If its me, then *******. You may have helped, but you did not ******* keep me alive. If I wanted to truly die, it would have happened. You are not the lone holy spirit that kept me afloat in my time of need. And in all honesty, halfway through you turned head and ****** me over, so please, kindly, shut your face.

And even if its not. What gives you that right to say you were keeping this person alive? If you truly were the only person they had, and they were in that much danger, go get them help. Tell people. Call the police or something. Don't just sit there and hold their hand so you can one day hold it over them that you 'kept them living' . That's ******* and manipulative and no one deserves that. And if they weren't that bad, if they had other people, don't take the credit like you are some righteous savior. Some pure soul who did nothing wrong. I spent a hell of a lot of time with you, and you are no angel, dear.

Funny thing is though, I keep on trying to get away from this. And I even keep on trying to protect you. I block you on things so you don't have to see this. So you don't have to see my stupid anger and hate because though you are no picnic and you were a manipulative ***** to me, it doesn't mean you deserve you to feel bad about my bad choices of seeking you out to look up. I'm also to blame in this, I looked for you again. But don't blame me if you searched this out when I made precautions to try that you wouldn't see this.

You know, I think the reason I still search you out is so that I can see if you're better and if you're not, to make myself promises to never be anything like you. Anger tends to fuel me a lot. I mean, my hatred for how people see love stories and suicides and depression got me to write my novel, which I adore. And your repetitive pretentious writing always did make me fight to write better, because though your type of writing was like candy to teens, I wanted mine to be the vegetables. ******* lame metaphor, but I am hyped up and its late at night, sue me. Regardless, I wanted to be the story people needed to read, that really made them think and grow, instead of what placated them as an easy read. Who knows, maybe if you could finish a story you could be a more popular novel. But I don't want to be popular, I want to matter. I want to make a difference. I don't want a quick buck, I don't want my writing to turn into some stupid marketing ploy to get me rich. I want to be classic. I may be shooting for ******* Pluto and I may not get what I want but at least I gave it one hell of a shot.

I do in a way want you to get better, to do something with your life and not be a mess. I'm happy you're trying. Maybe something will work out.

But I never want to be like you. And that has to be another reason I look, to fuel me and make sure I never sound like you, or think like you, because I know you are not who I want to be. I could never live with myself if I was pretentious and "tragically beautiful'. I'm just a regular person, with a few irregularities about her. I'm not some kind of epic heroine trying to write a tragically beautiful story for myself. I just want to live a nice life with people I love. My characters can live the beauty and/or tragedies that pull at heartstrings.

I'll never not be different, but I'm not letting that define me. Once, you got mad at me for letting my mental illness define me. Maybe it did then, but its certainly now true now. I'm not a crazy girl, I'm just a girl who happens to be a little crazy.

Make sure to take your own advice next time, and maybe next time I stupidly relapse I'll be a little bit proud, under all the annoyance.

I'm not meaning my opinion should matter in your life, though. And honestly yours shouldn't matter in mine. I'm slowly getting towards that. Maybe eventually we'll both get over this. Maybe you already are. I dunno. I don't talk to you. I sure as hell never will again. But for now, see you til next relapse.

Sincerely,

That Friend You Had Once A Long Time Ago

I'm falling down that rabbit hole
This love has taken its toll
Drifting through this swirling abyss farther down
I finally spot the ground
Feet planted firmly
A bustling tea party
Offer me a drink
Just a spot, the tea cups clink
Filled with who knows what
I want to run but
I'm growing
Overflowing
I need to find you
You'll know what to do
To get me out of this mad, mad, world inside
Without you, I can only run and hide
You are my bravery to help me defeat
The monsters I must beat
To get back to reality
The cat told me I must find my sanity
Without you it's not there
Just ask the March Hare
I'm mad without you by my side
Much like the hatter who uses his hat as a ride
Can't you see we're late?
For a very important date
We must get back now
We have no time to figure out how
We'll fight our madness together
Get out of this world forever
Fight the jabberwocky
To find the key
Back reality with you by my side
You are my bravery, my sanity, my pride

Grace has made it through Wonderland, and has seemed to find peace with it for the time being, so where does she go from here? This would be easy if like in books things just ended, closed up in a neat little bow at the end of the story and there is resolution.

But there is no resolution here. Just a desperate craving for meaning again.

I guess since my Wonderland is stable, the only thing left wrong is me.

Not to say that the baubles and do-dads in my head are still broken, no, Wonderland is at peace, remember? Must get you checked for that memory of yours, good sir.

Regardless, my ducks are trying to row and I must follow their orders as to not rock the boat. Nonetheless, though, who is Grace? I've been working so hard to keep the Jabberwockys at bay and stop the wars from coming and protect the heads from rolling, that it's like some part of me is missing. I feel like a hodge-podge, a hedgehog, speeding around and around in lost wonder trying to find something but never quite sure what.

Is writing truly the only distinctive, certain characteristic I have, with no contradictions and carpenters and changes? Is it the only solid footing I have on the edge of tomorrow? Am I not much else, with as much substance as a sellophone?

Everything seems to cancel, make me some sort of odd creation of jumbled things that don't seem like they would fit right at all, but enough glue was pumped into me that practically anything seems to stick.

I'm covered in glitter and polish, getting thicker each day, making me someone new with each passing coat. I'm not gaining weight, so is my inner soul just melting away?

Can a person just become polish? A person who creates themselves instead of something made, genuine, and real? Am I even Grace anymore, should I adopt a new name as if to show the difference that has taken a hold of me since my name was born years ago? Will I reach the point that when someone wants to know me and starts to chip the paint away, that by the end there is nothing behind the color at all? Will I become nothing but choices and farces to the point they are me?

I have no clue how to get back. Can I? The paths behind are gone, the bread I've been crumbling to save my path was gone years ago, as the Chesire Cat promised I'd find my way if I had nowhere to go. But guess now I have no way and have somewhere to go, and he's not to be found. Typical.

Do I want to get back? Am I too attached to my polish now?

My polish was layered to make others happy, so who am I without others, without the affections and pleasing of others? I don't know. That's terrifying. I can't do alone, and I have led myself here more and more with each passing day. I don't think I can be alone ever again, or the Jabberwocky will certainly **** me. I wish it was a maybe, but for once I can't even rely on those.

Guess I better keep on layering the polish and glitter, trying to find a semblance of who I once was. Maybe a mix of now and who I am? Possibly that could work.

Now only if I knew who I was at all.

That would make choosing polishing colors much easier.

Jacky John jugs juice
jungle Jim's juggle
Jumping Jill's jabot
Jeff's June Jay  
Jed Jud Jid"s jade
July's  jabberwocky jabiru
Jan jabs Jake!
Jack's jackaroo
Jackson Jacob's jubilant Jacket!
jAcKpOt!

checkerboard flooring, red rose walls
the large caterpillar's snoring, lets count humpty-dumpty's falls

excessively strong tea, smiles that drive the crowds crazy
a snakeskin hat just for me, something in the tea made the world a little wavy

find me that hare, i want a scone
the white roses are still there, i want a jabberwocky of my own

please give me a design, i'll sew it up for you
NO THAT ONE'S MINE, i'll make tea for two

i want to save the world, then again it really doesn't matter
'cause you won't understand a word, i'm mad as a hatter

Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He “believed in six impossible things just before breakfast”
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
“The beautiful illusion”
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet’s world,
was shattered,
Not by “a sea of trouble”
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
“The Horror, the Horror”
And then
Nothing more.

I don’t believe a word you say;
You voted for Trump, so go away.
I don’t want your opinion any more
On literally any kind of issue.
Though you now begin to realize
What you did to us all. Get a tissue.
Go stand in the corner and let us
Adults fix up the mess you made.
None of you paid attention
Further than the second grade.

It’s not truly all your fault, I confess.
We have to lay blame on the press.
I’m not much happier with the
Millions who didn’t even vote.
They stayed home and ******;
Made the country miss the boat.
A lazy, worthless population
Is a shameful kind of circumstance
But a stupid loudmouthed bunch of fools
Is at the prom without any pants.

Then we look to a political group
That rolls around in their own ****
By electing a pompous baboon
Who can barely read or spell
Who spews out daily jabberwocky
That drives us all to a kind of hell.
He's an attention ***** and monster.
A spoiled rich brat with no brains
Who wants to set fire to the USA
Then urinate on the remains.

The horror is, though it’s all visible
Your lack of care about facts is risible.
You gladly go along with him when
He blames his predecessor instead,
Saying the fault is what your idiot did
Not keeping the truth firmly in your head.
It’s no longer campaign rhetoric.
So please wake the hell up and see
What your stupidity is doing to us
Because we can’t bend you over our knees.

there’s too much
of this -
too much work
and paying bills

not enough playing
and finding thrills
in sand pies
made at the beach

and silly
jabberwocky speech
too much worrying
about this and that

not enough funning
lends you a life
perpetually flat

The bourne conspiracy isn’t held in shades of reflected gray, but the raging current of rosewater.

Soldiers of fortune draped in dandelions uprooted from Napoleon’s farm.

Bronte’s web grows thick inhaling inherent rice.

Nonsense picked up in jabberwocky from a novelized wookiee.

IQ bound success clubs playing the most dangerous game, hunting Will.

Ents chopped and sold over borders, bought back sixfold as disassembled chairs.

Hard hitting lines of north Dallas long past the forty, placating the rules for larger shares.

All these years I thought this was a sort of coping mechanism, a sort of way to stop myself from peeling my skin off to try to scream at it to listen. A way to keep me contained.

My words knew better than I.

When I couldn't keep my thoughts straight, my lyrical ramblings were putting away chronicles that would eventually be a bread trail to understand the world inside my head. To understand the little girl locked behind bars and being told she is a Jabberwocky. My little, trapped, fearful, left behind, bipolar girl.

Things seem so much clearer now. I haven't felt so unclouded and intelligent in years, but suddenly the paths in front of me seem so much easier than they used to be. The poisonous fog over my life has lifted and I can see the monster I was stabbing at was truly just me.

I just couldn't see that then.

I have my writing to thank for everything. I have to thank it for everything. It is the one entity in my life that has been constant and loving and keeping me human. Alive, even.

It is the music of my soul, and it amazes me every day how deeply I love it, and it loves me. I wrote an entire piece two years ago about my love for writing and how it has always stayed by me, uncertain of its love for me. Writing loves so many people, and I am just a grain of sand in writing's life. But lately I've been feeling that even a grain of sand can matter so much. I mean, Dickens and King and Miller and Lee were only grains of sand and look how much they did?

It feels stupid and forced of me to get all motivational speech here after the chronicled years of confused sufferings and endless, unsure ramblings. I'm not going to sit here and talk about how I see the light and I know the way suddenly, and my life is fixed.

My life will never be fixed. But in an imperfect world, where  nothing every truly is fixed, it seems the wading through the waters is pleasant when you do what works best for you.

What I will say, though, is that my life is finally, after years of uncertainty, one hundred percent my life, just as it should be.

I'm bipolar, it'll always make my life interesting and different than everyone else's. But if I can try to keep my life overall happy and have writing in it and feel strong and loved and brilliant, and I think for once I'll be fine.

Funny that I think this is the first time I promised that in a poem and truly believed it. Not just the moment, not just next week.

I think from now on, I can be fine.

Lips and finger
tips send hips
on trips and some
sink ships. My ship
slips and trickles
down a rabbit's hole

I thought you were
a queen. Red cup of
liquid gold with dreams
about caterpillars choking on
smokestacks and fungi.
“Who are you?”

Even the Mad Hatter
would call that fiction

--------------------------------------------

Those blender-chipped
lips I kissed, that left welts
on my skin. Those Cheshire
choppers that could ****
a cat. You were no queen,
you had a heart of black

You twiddle-dumb
**** with wonderlust
thighs. Drunken eyes
and heavy lids that bid on
empty shot glasses. This
ship has done sailed.

Jabberwocky babies shoot out of your bandersnatch
“Off with their ******* heads”

Following the white rabbit in his waistcoat
Listening to the tick tock of his pocket watch
Let's fall down the rabbit hole nestled at the trunk of the tree

And where you land is a room
An entire world hidden behind a door and all you need is the key
A nibble from a cake that makes you grow
And with a sip of a drink, you shrink
Insert the key and twist the ****
Opens the door to a world beyond imagination

There's a cat that grins
And with a smile, he disappears
Have a cup of tea and a biscuit with the Hare, the Hatter, and the Dormouse
Paint white roses red with the Red Queen
Beware of her freakishly large head
Slay the Jabberwocky with the Vorpal Sword
And restore the White Queen to her throne
I'm sure the ****** Big Head wouldn't like that
"Off with her head," she would say
Listen to the bicker of the twins, Tweedledee and Tweedledum
The Red Queen calls them her fat boys
Partake in the musings of Absolem
The hookah-smoking caterpillar who transforms into a beautiful blue butterfly

Let us escape to Wonderland
It is far more appealing than the real world

perhaps I'm just alice walking sideways & upsides downsides through this rabbit hole
not a downfall, a ****** to the core of the earth
but an upfall (make me bright, I can see colour & roses) to the dimension
where the creatures have
stainless steel hearts
nobody ever hurts
unless the queen begs to differ
when her corset is revealed to be
suffocating her wicked waist
the jabberwocky seeks vengeance & a chance to breathe fire
"off with her head," is the threat from the enemy
but an escape is in sight
a little locked door
chesire smiles' a menacing grin
a crescent moon in the black night
it doesn't matter where you go if you don't know where you're going
a cake platter with "eat me" on a card in front
home? what is that?
tweedledee & tweedledum
mad hattee, tea, dormouse
and an unbirthday anthem sung
lacking gravity or worldly law
along the dining table for the quirks
and fablesome creatures of wonderland

-cj