Another letter to my darling poet

Dearest Oscar Wilde,

I love you. Love you as I have ever loved a girl or boy. I love you. Here I stand here now, thinking. For today I am sad, and so I call to you. I am lost and alone and afraid and not sure what to do. The words you my write me may make me sleep safely for a night....

When you die, did you think, that you too, had to dawn a suit of grey? And did you have to swing?

It's the end of the world as we know it... and I feel..fine?

I was listening to "Its The End Of The World" (favorite R.E.M song) today then all of a sudden I felt so lonely! Like this wave of depression came over me. Then I started to sob and laugh hysterical braking and ripping things apart. I just kept blaring the song and laughing and crying and dancing and destroying. Damn, what the fuck happened to me? If this shit keeps up whats going to happen? It all happend just last night and now I can't explain why it went on. What the fuck is wrong with me?

- The Typist

The First.

I'm around people who don't stare at me. Everyones hair is a bright color almost. People are laughing and playing guitar and such and such at lunch. We can listen to music in class. I'm around people who understand.

- The Typist.

Death

The ice on my tounge made it bleed. I felt confusion, and then a percing cold. I shiver. Shiver. Tremble in the wake of my changing body. The ice slides down my throat. My lips are numb. I try to breathe. I cling to the other persons body. We are alone. I dig into its skin with my hands, hoping for warmth. Warmth from the corpse, from its humanly flesh. The hallow feeling of the ice spread out all over me. I shiverd. Shiverd. I pressed my skin close to the person in question. The words I tried to speak were lost from the screams I herd when they found us.. laying there. Cold. Bruised. Bleeding. Freezing. As my limbs grew limp I realized I was compleatly exposed. I tried to speak again. But was drowned out by screams. And that is simplicity in its self. And that is death.

Life Part...something or other

Today was the first day I noticed the bags and lines under my eyes. There so much clearer now. I rubbed them. I thought about people. Tea, my friend, my other friend, this paitent at work. I just kept thinking about everything. I don't know why. I still am. Highschool. I really think about Tea alot. She's awesome. And cute. And stuff. She's like a bag of skittles. :) I miss her. Thats it I guess.

Listening to "Letters and Packages" American Football

Grave Song

This poem is the poem I left for Jim Morrison at his grave. He is buried in Paris.



You were born on the 13th moon, child of darkness and acid and gloom.

Born from fragile tragic egg shell moon and hence you became inside your mothers womb.

And so you were trusted into the earth.

Now I stand amidst the Paris rain looking for your resting place.

Ah! I see you are guarded well.

Cigarettes unsmoked and full bottles of whiskey and vodka lay above to greet you.

We watch your patch of earth and beg for you to come back threw.

I stand as close as I can around the hungry crowd... the rest of us.

I long to lay my body next to you.

I weep for you. Why I do not know

Paris's soft rain falls down on us all; The Followers of the religion you made for us.

Oh mighty king! Come forth unto earth and give us more sins.

Come unto our useless place and grant us with your kiss.

Now I kneel down. And I watch lizards scurry at your tombstone.

I pray to you. I pray that you can hear us. I pray that you can feel my lips on your space of earth.

You were born on the 13th moon. you we're born a king.

I want to lay next to your corpse.

We chant.

We cry.

Yes, you were born on the 13th moon a king.

You were born a lizard king.

Lost In Dreams

In my dream I drifted.

In my dream, I lay.

My body paralized.

My thoughts, drifting.

My fingures in your hair.

My lips on your skin.

Your arms around me.

Just lost together.

Forever, maybe..

If I can ever fall alseep.

Road Trip So Far....

Greetings! I'm sitting in Baltimore Maryland in an old mansion from Victorian days. It was redone into a hostle. It is very pretty to sit by the window and think of dresses and tea and carriges. The Poe House is in a very bad part of town and such. Plus they moved the offical museme to Richmond, VA. But a man still owns it. But we arn't here on the days that its open and he's out of town! GAH! Damn my luck! We did go to the beutiful Annabel Lee Tavern. Tommorrow we see his grave and head upstate to stay on a farm for awhile then take a bus to the big apple.


The rest of the trip before that was all country stuff which I found boring expect I made a few friends (AND fellow HP Lovecraft fans.... CHTULU IS GOD!) at a hostle in Harpers Fary. The town its self was boring. Blah. Working on a Sherlock Holmes fan fiction! Should have some of it up soon I guess.

Onwards! The game is afoot!

- The Typist