I don't MindI hate that phrase,"If you don't mind",the one that goes,with the look that says,I dare you to say noI hate that sentence,"If you want to"but really,you don't have a choiceI hate those words,"You can..."implying that,you have an optionIf you don't mind, I dare you to say no, If you want to, You really don't have a choice You can...You never really had an option.I hate those phrases,The ones that expect,robotic responses,Why of course I don't mind
Her WingsShe may be broken.But her wings won't ever die.Through her pain she flies.
Every Time I Play Our LullabyEvery time I play out lullaby,tears fall from my eyes.Every time I sing our lyrics,I let it out and cry.Every time I hum our melody,I wish to be alone.Every time I think of you,my pain is set in stone.Every time I hear our song,our memories fill my head.Evey time I think of fall,that you won't be there I dread.But every time I play our lullaby,I remember that you were there.So I try my hardest to be strong,because it's only fair.Every time I strum our chords,I remember the fun we had.So instead of dreading the future,I try to focus on our past. But even though I'm strong, and try my hardest to keep smiling on, my sorrow is still there. So don't you think it's only fair?
ActorYou're angry.Don't cover it up with apologizes.You can't change the way you've acted now.All the time,I pretend I'm fine with the way you've acted.But it's a lie.I'm angry.I cover it up with a smile.But now I've had enough of the way you've acted.This time,I won't pretend I'm fine with the way you've acted.I won't hide behind a lie any more.I'm ready to fight and to show you how I feel.I hope you're ready to fight and see the emotions you've unleashed.Because I shouldn't have to pretendI'm okay with the way you've acted.After all, I'm not an
deergirllong ago there lived a boy in the hazy mountains to the east who often did the fishing and logging for his father. in the wintertime, when the fish were hidden frozen under the layercake pondwater and the trees nearest the cabin were too tired and frail and quivery to be cut down for firewood, the boy would have to venture out quite far to find ponds that were still crackly and wood that would still burn.the father, seeing his son struggle to mash up the first of the frostbitten roots in the old castiron dragonbelly pot, raised his head a bit from the worn imprinted couch where he lay most day and night. he saw how the little fish laying like forgotten words had barely enough bone to make a stock, let alone any flesh on them, as skinny as his own son.he beckoned, steering the son near him with his whittled walking-stick. not a useful thing, that, but the son had made it and so out of rules for such things the gruff father kept it.and what he said was true. the son was almost a man;