I sit there. Darkness flooding in as the lights go off. If I put my hand down were I can’t see it, what would it touch? A furry monster about to pounce up? Or is it a puppy? Yet my hand slip into the darkness. Nothing. A part of me knew logically nothing would be there. A part of me hoped, to keep my imagination alive.

One day it too will slip into the darkness....

A piano made of sand sits on a beach. Waits. Wait for someone, something, or a thing to play it. It. It can stop the waves, make seagulls watch, make dolphins fly. Music. Music trickles out of it like waves of honey.

Black. Black like the sea at night under the moon. White. White like the foam riding the waves. Me. Me and you together listening to the real piano, the waves at dawn....

A sea horse live in the sea, but why? A boat from B.C, that’s how. Horse pilled by the ones, tens, hundreds, thousands! A shipwreck, that’s how. Horse’s corpse pilled up to the coral. A survivor, that’s how. A horse of adaptation. Thats how....

It’s dark, cramp, and cold. They used to fit in but now feel the earge to leave. Slowly they find a wall to break free of. Out side the walls cracks, let them out. The white shells fall of, revealing a chick. But all too soon, they will out grow this place too....

When I swing, I feel free, like a bird, unable to fly.

Like a frog, forced to walk, like a, like a girl on a swing.

I try to catch the sun, moon, and stars, but I can’t reach.

Then you speak, and brings me back, only to wish fly again.

When I close my eye, I see myself fly, floating, reaching, and I wish it was real.

Because I am just a girl on a swing....

My child is strange.

She never smiles, at lest not normally.

I’m afraid to adopt, it would be dead in a day.

Or is she just lonely?

Just needs a friend?

She scares them like silly.

They never gave her a chance.

Yet she is strange.

Is it her?

Or a demon possession?

Is it her fault she set ice cream trucks on fire?

Or when she almost killed Millie?

Or how she never interacts?

Or how I fond a note b...

When you walk in the woods, don’t wander far from your group’s grave, don’t look behind, between, or above the poppies. For he lives in them, don’t wander down the red carpet, nor you should not say hello, or you will be a poppy. No matter what you say....