on your 15th birthday you took my virginity. on your 16th birthday you threatened to beat me to death but i kissed you anyway because i wanted you to be happy. it's your 17th birthday, i hope its good i guess. my family used to do this thing at birthday parties where after singing the traditional happy birthday song to whoever deserved it respectively, we would sing the merry unbirthday song from alice in wonderland to everybody, it was fun and it was weird but its what makes my family my family. you ******* hated it. you thought it was stupid, and it made me sad but when we would go to parties together id decline when they'd call me up for my turn to blow out the candles, just to impress you. the first birthday party i went to after you left me i asked them to sing the unbirthday song to me twice. i guess i just wanted to say that i've fallen in love with a boy that lets my family scream the unbirthday song at him and my sister rub frosting on his face and he is sincere when he tells me he loves it. i'm doing great, and i don't know i just hope this birthday is better for you than ones in the past have been. don't threaten to **** anyone please, and don't get so drunk that you start crying to journey and calling all of your ex girlfriends.

When you turned two,
they dressed you up like a princess,
they put cake in front of you
for you to destroy with your tiny hands.
Everyone thought of how cute you were.

When you turned eight,
mom brought Burger King
for the entire class.
The fries smelled of simple pleasures.
Everyone thought of how cool you were.

When you turned thirteen,
girls night in was the thing.
Homemade face masks, prank phone calls,
followed by pizza and junk food.
Everyone thought of how fun you were.

When you turned eighteen,
your friends picked you up,
at midnight.
You stop by 7-11,
to buy a Black n Mild and a lotto ticket.
You thought of how mature you were.

When you turned twenty-one,
everyone cared to wish you well.
Margaritas on the house,
celebrations made to be forgotten.
You thought of how life has only just begun.

When you turned twenty-eight,
there were no presents to be expected.
Cancellations, excuses, and "sorry"
filled the day.
You thought of - "Who do I matter to anymore?"

Happy Unbirthday to Me

How glorious it once was
My Wonderland
Singing flowers, unbirthday parties
And painting roses red
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee
Laughing, playing jubilantly
White Rose
Beautiful, brave
Shy Violet
Strong, sweet
Hatter
Protective, playful
Gave hope, kindness, love
I grew older
Wonder fading
Until only madness remained
My dormouse hid in his little teapot
My Cheshire cat disappeared
The Queen of Hearts gave misery
Tied in a treacherous bow
The caterpillar tried to transform
Toxic, *****, fear
Beware the Jabberwock, my dear
He wants you for his bed
My love, the Hatter left me
One golden afternoon
Devoid of wonder
Doomed to ache
The White Rabbit came
And took me by the hand
To lead me from my once wondrous Wonderland
You’re late You’re late
Your future will not wait
No time to say “I love you, Goodbye”
You’re late You’re late You’re late

There's a feeling I've felt hindering on the tip of my tongue, twirling with sawdust at the end of my bed. Its tingled my toes and tickled my nose and killed all hopes that this is just happiness.

Sleep is for figments and products of sanity, neither of which I can claim heritage. Well perhaps figments in the waking hours of the darkness, but that is a tale for another time.

I can feel his fingertips stroking my sides, reminding me what it is to feel human and vulnerable and perfect. Didn't know he boosted me ego and turned me into the self absorbed maniac you see before you today. Tyrant, remembrr? Oh wait, that's another tale altogether again.

I ramble in the night, in the morning, all the time. My thoughts wander with echoing clarity to encompass the truth about me; not everything is quite right. The teacups are lopsided at the unbirthday table tonight.

Yet again, speaking in riddles and stories unbeknownst to you. Stupid me, stupid Grace, stupider you. Why are you so open to my madness anyway? Maybe you're the crazy one.

This sick godlike embodiment I feel is one I forget isn't real, isn't me, isn't life. But wait. Its a part of me, so perhaps it is real as well? Call a jury, wake a judge, there must be a verdict on my elation. Am I a minor deity or are the synapses playing some cruel joke on my heartstrings?

Heartstrings, why did I bring them into this? I have shut them off for now, for they are dumb and deaf to honesty and logic and do whatever the hell they feel. Or is it whatever the heaven? I forget sometimes where the real misery is, or how the expression goes. I've never quite gotten everything right, being as upside down as I.

Insomnia brings out the manic in me, and I know its not real, but for a moment, just a moment, I belong. I am real, I am loved, I am powerful. Weak little Grace is no more, with her fears and contradictions. Just strength is left, and it is glorious.

Just remember not to let the heffelumps get you in the night, for they are the true evil behind your honey ***. Or am I a heffelump? I can't remember anymore.

This is going nowhere, everywhere, somewhere.

Wake me up inside before I destroy myself, or simply perpetuate my perfection with a caress of your hand. Whatever suits your fancy.

Call me Aphrodite and we'll call it a night after hours of mindblowing ***. But you expected that all along, of course you did, because you know my bones better than we both realize.

When you put your hands on me I feel ****. But yet again, right now I an perpetually **** and twitchy and awake and fake. Dare you to kiss me anyway.

Dare you to see me, psychotics and all.

Bet you'll run like the rest, yet like all good hiders its refreshing to be found every once in awhile.

Find me, and see. See the monster behind my beautiful eyes. That's the day when you'll see what true danger looks like; me.

Insomnia makes me odd, but yet again I'm always odd.

Little miss muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and craves, for a man betwixt her to tell her she's killer and make her a siren next day.

Forget, no, yes, its all I do. Its not how that goes, for sirens are certainly not temporary. I am certainly a black widow every day, not just each odd thursday.

Go to bed, Grace. I beg of you.

Close my eyes and say goodnight to the beloved moon, for the sun is nearly up and it certainly hates me, I am sure of it.

Just never forget all this is wrapped up in one little old me. No one seems to remember that until its far too late, so might as well run now, because otherwise little miss muffet here on her tuffet will be the death of you.

I'm absolutely terrified.
Thinking about never seeing you again in three months feels like I'm saying goodbye to myself.
You've become a fraction of my soul.
Jealousy is only seaming together pains that I do not long for.
To see us go divergent for only because of distance takes away my hope.
Stirs together panic.
Time is the enemy.
It's waning out.
Mocking me.

Stay.
My darling stay.

I knew they'd be more sightings, it looks like I was right
The day has arrived once again, where things have come to light
Shinning armour is absent, and there is no gallant knight
Oh Annette, there's only Den, and your chastity's not tight

It seems Miss Tidy has returned, she's covered a long span
**** escapades displayed again, written by a big **** fan
***** heifers filled Cow Pies, diving in like Desperate Dan
I wouldn't mind a go myself, because I am a man

Bus stops and phone boxes, seem to be your mainstream media
Your depicted as a ****, and your appetite gets greedier
Every time that you appear, your antics are more seedier
Be careful of your infamy, you'll end up on Wikipedia

What the hell is going on, you've resurfaced once again
There's no accounting for good taste, with ******* different men
I don't know if it's better ***, than your getting from old Den
Oh Annette if you get judged, it'll be a Ten from ***

Bus shelters are the place, to read about your ***
Showing intimate parts of your life, like the local multiplex
Written words like **** and ****, are nothing to perplex
It's obvious what's going on, its hardly that complex

If **** *** is preferable, if it's not just a passing whim
You can lick my exposed ****, and I'll give yours a rim
A tight *** is just as good, as a nice warm ****
Oh Annette untidy your legs, and we'll go out on a limb

**** *** excites me, but there's just one small detail
Is your *** completely free, or is your **** for sale
If you use lubrication, then it never will get stale
Naked flesh I really like, that's probably cos I'm male

If telephone boxes we're obsolete, if bus stops did not exist
Where would Annette's news be then, from the *** obsessed artist
Would he try a public lavatory, would he have a different twist
Oh Annette If writings ceased, *** stories would be missed

George Formby leaned on lampposts, but I'm not sure I'm a strummer
Unless you count a *******, and you are a heavy ******
I'll wait until you come by, for one hell of a good ******
Outside in the night light, so much better in the summer

Could you be a lovely girl, or are you an ugly *****
**** ***** and ***** *****, are just the local lingo
Oh Annette if you want ***, don't wait too long in limbo
I can do it on all fours, as well as legs akimbo

Softer holes are better wet, **** positions don't much matter
Whether it is *******, or laying a bit flatter
Certain parties can be fun, if your naked on a platter
A very happy unbirthday treat, I'd share with the Mad Hatter

Do you bite as well as ****, be rough and rarely gentle
let passion take control of you, cos I'm not temperamental
You seem to be the kind of girl, to be experimental
It makes no difference if your a ****, it isn't accidental

There's nothing wrong with ***** *****, if they are never shut
Open all hours is quite fun, when you're an **** ****
I hope you have "**** Handles", that are looming round your ****
So Annette relight my fire, I don't want my long wick cut

Come on now be daring, because you seem like an old friend
I hope your ****** preferences, are not just a passing trend
So much is known about you, with all that has been penned
If your into *** ***, then give your **** a lend

Just how many blokes you've had, well I don't have a clue
There's Den of course but now and then, you try someone new
It doesn't really bother me, if you've had quite a few
You could be in fetish films, if your backdoor is blue

Perhaps I have misjudged you, and you are a teachers pet
And everything that has been said, is something you regret
But If the rumours are all true, then I would not forget
To stuff my ***** up your ****, and I'd say oh Annette !

happy birthday me when i'm dead...
all those balloons had helium in them,
and all your celebratory  encores
and choir fancies were but chipmunks
in my imagining how,
otherwise, the celebrations took place:
i told the Japanese army to
bomb that ******* Tsunami...
did they listen?
                           noo.
                                     for ordinary
people like me, the only chance to see
organised crime, is to look out for
Jehovah's Witnesses knock on doors...
ginger!               ginger!              Swahili in Haiti!
that's the closest we'll ever get to seeing
the Italian mafia in practice -
and who the hell writes poetry in order
to wait for an interview?
  she publishes me... she ends up in hospital
with water in her lungs.
        you heard of the fascination
with those old migrant to the English coast,
central European pelicans on these isles?
took them over 2000 years to come back,
and they're shy creatures...
   whoever thought about writing poetry
to not utilise their shyness by otherwise waiting
for media interviews: is a ******* potato-head
stump worth a piñata bashing.

This is rude. I should stop using misnomers for my own devices, but I cannot help myself. So insomnia it shall be called, when I cannot find the words to sleep or the fervor to close my eyes.

That sounded all wrong on my lips, but my head could care less at this point.

The cool touch of my glasses on my nose wake me further. Way to go Grace, you're even more awake now. Like you ever needed it.

There's a jitterbug in my leg, sending me so sky-high.

Should I go to bed or continue pondering existence and words and dreams until my tongue goes numb from rolling all these R's: Rest, redeem, re-purpose, redo, remember. Always remember. Its hard to forget.

Days past and the insomnia persists. I have slept, perhaps, in that time, but yet I have not dreamed, and that is where my insomnia lies. Which lies do I mean, that is the real question, duality always tricks the eye.

Let's get these hearts beating faster, faster, to the beat of the music, while they touch each other's fingertips and kiss each other's lips and meet hips in a vain attempt to have it mean something more.

The words have left me, and I do not know where to end. So i propose another unbirthday be the day of reckoning, and maybe another poem, another day, my make more sense to me. Adieu my dears, and hope to pray to live just another day, for life is the most beautiful tragedy we can ever love.

Of the 364 un-birthdays, best occupied by your craziest , unthoughtful and refillable teaports, who rather like to celebrate year round with you, though uninvited, it would be wise you decline hosting the party too.

"Well, why not? What's wrong with a Thinking party everyday?" 
 
I hear you asking.  Is what they do best by default afterall -- one is naturally invited whether one likes it or not.  

My reply would be "Mad Unthinking does not a party make!"  

Unless you like going on hater shooting rampage.  Otherwise, battling the twinkle little tea trays hovering in your delusional sky is rather, shall I say, a pointless endeavor.  Far better you meditate on that.

Luckily too, the only day they wont be celebrating is that one day on your special birth date.   Since it's the single time of year you're more than likeliest the happiest by design, among friends and families!  

But why just limit it to a day in the entire calendar year?   You should "happily uncelebrate bad-everything " or "celebrate happily good-nothing" for the 364 days in your mind.  And all should be well.  

Just remember, lift the tall hat and check under the hood, you may discover mad party always get you plenty of room.   But they merely recycle as a visage.  Chances are, you'd love to gate-crash and bring your best butter and bread knife to spread it all over time.  There's no "while" as they "mean", so to speak.   Especially when you are hangry and you had "nothing" yet, taking less is far healthier than filling up a buffet of nutrionless bad food.    Like clouds in the sky, let them go.

About that Raven too.  They are just cryptic messenger going backward and forward with unintelligible riddles that will spin your too clever head to a nevar resting point.  The codename is analysis paralysis.  

Akin to a kite in the sky, you can break the thread.  

Otherwise, you may end up like Alice to steal time, beat time, pass time and may get lost in a treacle well with much surgarcoating and sentimentality. Only to wake up 2 hrs later than you should have, to reality around you.  

So let it be known, and shed light into, the unknown parts of the 364 unbirthdays.  If you manage to go out, have some social bake and cake among humans now and then, you'll soon forget to uncelebrate them and lose all the over-muchness anyway.  

That's my wish for you !

An unbirthday!
364 of them!
Make them happy days!
Even if it’s not the best day
And your birthday seems so far
And it seems that it’s the best
To be honest I see why
But everyday can be good
Ok I’ll say upon experience
That some will make you scream
And you want to wake up
Thinking it’s all just a dream
Some will make you shout
And no one knows what it’s about
That some will make you cry
Feel like you want to die
Like a flower withering away
BUT COME ON WAKE UP
let the flower rise and grow!
Be a garden! Be you!
Be strong! Be happy
Love others but please oh please don’t forget yourself
Care for others and yourself
Keep on going no matter what!
Oh and one final thing
Happy birthday
Or unbirthday of course

love from Middy xoxo

Who is she?
Who are we?
The Cheshire cat is still smiling at me. I am who I am, but who will I be? Alice is lost and so are we. Will someone please set us free? I thought I was mad, but the Hatter is madder than we.
Just a simple old cat, thankful I'm not the queens bat. The hearts tarts have been snatched, surely someone's head will be hatched.
The White Rabbits still tardy, he is sure to miss the unbirthday party.
The Tweedles are fighting, listening to them is a mad kind of exciting.
The flowers are crying, their sweet petals slowly dying. Could the March Hare be the only one who could help them prepare?
A Wonderland this surely is!
But do we know yet, who she really is?

Can't sleep
These dizzy thoughts
spinning ceaslessly
relentless
in a cup

Half empty,
Half full?

Who knows,
But in the end
the mad hatter will
still wish you had
never been born--
A very Merry Unbirthday to you
to me?

Indeed

Round and Round
they go
mixing colors, textures
emotions, thought
into this smear of humanity

A stain on the background of my mind
as it clicks and whirs and calculates
the options, the weighted possibilities
the electrical impulses zipping past
the smear of confused, muttled anguish

through it, around it,
but the shock cannot
seperate the colors
the textures, the emotions,
the thoughts

The colors melt into grey
various shades of unvarying
reluctant gestures

As the cheshire cat
smiles and laughs like
the cookie crisp mascot
cukoo for coooookie crisp
I hear its laughter

Chuckling madly
at the mad hatter and myself
the mad hatter sipping
out of the cup of grey
as he sings about my unborn nature

Unborn into the world of reality
of sensibility, of responsibility

WAKE UP

I snap back
I look around
and do not recognize
anything at all

They call me crazy
Like I'm the Mad Hatter, celebrating an unbirthday
But if insanity was happiness, I'd be so content
If it was celebration of the mundane,  I would be tranquil
But it is not

Insanity is fear
Fear, of others words, of friends, and lovers, and yourself
Fear to do the wrong thing, and make a mistake
Fear, to do what is right
Fear, tainting all of your thoughts

Insanity is the hatred
Oh yes, the hatred, red and powerful
You close your eyes, and you can see it, the beast
Insanity is Satan stopping by to say hello
Heath Ledger introducing some chaos into the equation

When you wake up in the middle of the night
Drenched in a cold sweat, covered in your own blood
With no recollection of the previous night
No explanations, for what has happened
That, is insanity

Insanity is the enemy of death
For death brings with it silence
And there is no fear, chaos, hate or insanity in the silence
Death, a beautiful new lover, an escape
Death, the only option

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

Birthdays are usually seen as a time of celebration. It is almost as if many ask the world to thank them for their existence and there is nothing wrong with that form of celebration. I’m glad you exist. However, for my birthday (which was a couple days ago) I would like to thank every single one of you for your existence. It is you who I should thank for this life I have. Without your thoughts, whether they be good or evil or void or valid, I would not exist. And if you’ve ever taken even a nanosecond out of one of your days to think of me, thank you. You really didn’t have to, but I am so appreciative you did. My birthday is considered a time of self-reflecting and know that I thought of you. Because a piece of each one of you has made this whole that is me. You are an incredible person who is unique and ever evolving. So, happy unbirthday to you, beautiful. I love you.

than the Mad Hatter. And the March
Hare points me to my unbirthday. So,
I say “if I’m not birthed on this earth” What
am I?  A cup of flavored hot water

called tea? A sweet mixture of flour and sugar
that's baked? Call me a cake with icing! I don't like vanishing
from a bite or a swallow.  I can whistle as a teapot
without making myself hot. And I can dish it out

without them calling me dessert. A squirt or
a lick? My colors bleed on a napkin? Crumbs that fall
on their laps? Or a hatpin that holds yellow hair? Ask
the March Hare. I'll age as wine shining down

the holes I've fallen in. Growing taller than
this town I’m in.