Or not
Come hither,let me tend to you.
My words like medicine to heal your ignorance.
It may hurt at first,
the Truth.
Oh, my dear,
you use your eyelids a touch too much.
See, how your eyes can't adjust to the Light,
or rather, you can't,
see.
Come hither,
let me press your wit to my heart,
shameful luck, it's not that sharp
love this
Anyhoo,
Another fruitless day.
I had obscene amounts of cake, sifted through old chat records, missed my friends like the dickens, daydreamed about my future cookware, fantasized about my future couch (trust me, fantasized is the proper verb here), and basically traumatized one of my best friends out of her wits with my musings.
Hmmm, in retrospect, maybe not a completely wasted day.
The poem above the totally unrelated giraffe picture is a poem I wrote a long time ago, but I love it.
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