The Purple FrostShe was told that goblins didn't exist and that fairies weren't real. She tried to tell them that that wasn't true; that they were real. She wanted to show them that magic existed, but they wouldn't believe her. That was when she made a wish; a simple wish on a star so high that everyone- for one single moment- would see the magic she believed in and be truly happy for a fleeting moment. She didn't see her wish come true. The little girl died one cold December night from a high fever. Her family was extremely sad by her passing and buried her in a simple, but lovely, garden. Years passed by and numerous flowers bloomed across her grave, but still, the magic that she wished for did not come to pass. Ten years after the little girl's passing, another little girl moved into the house that the previous girl's family lived in. She was sad and lonely, but
Letter to...hey, motherI'm writing this letter to explain youwhy have I been away for so longdon't worry, I just want to tell youthat it's not your fault,not your faultI didn't want you to see me failto feel as if your struggles have been in vainyour hair is gray and it's not even timeyour wrinkles are getting deeper with every mistake of minehey, guysyou're sick and angry, for all I knowbut please, don't tear the pages before you readI won't blame you, I'll only let you knowthat it's not your fault,not your faultI'll only apologize for being a burdenfor crying and kicking at all the wrong directionsfor suffocating you with my incompletionfor never listening when you were in painhey darling,I'm sorry for never being aroundI just didn't want you to see me all run downit's not that I hate you, in fact I love you a lotand it's not your fault,not your faultyou're not responsible for these awful scarsyou're not the one who killed my prideso what should it be you to suffer by
Sticks and StonesSticks and stonesMay break my bonesBut words leave scars insideMy bones have healedMy pain’s concealedBut unseen scars will thriveThey dig down deepThey make me weepBut when I’m asked what hurtsThere is no scratchNo mark or patchThat makes the scars revert.The tongue’s a swordThat strikes a cordAnd tears the strings apartBut there’s no wordsNor healing herbsThat soothe a broken heart.Remember nowAnd every howAnd why and when you speakBe kind to allMake none feel smallOr call someone a freak.
A Recipe for TeapotsIt came like the hushin the middle of a hunt.The release of the worth of a lieneedled in the patchwork of flameswe feed to make ourselves colderThat was the day I took my life on a bicycle run.