A Metaphor's Looking Glass

I decided I would post these, which I just found, if for no other reason than to know exactly where I can find them in the future if I need.  My Companion On the day you were born, you were given a heart Your brown-haired, black-eyed teddy bear.  When you stood, it swept the floor behind your feet There was no playmate it could not meet Your brown-haired, black-eyed teddy bear.  You took it to sleep overs, rolled in your bag On long trips in the car, it pillowed your head Whether summer or winter, you were tucked into bed  With your brown-haired, black-eyed teddy bear It suffered through dress up and falls to the floor But the older you got, the more tears it absorbed It witnessed the beginning, forever, and no more  But still of that heart you could always be sure Your brown-haired, black-eyed teddy bear Perhaps, when you're old, and wrinkled, and wise You will look to the love in your little bear's eyes Show it the depth of your grandchild's sighs Hold it tight to

Today, I moved in. I moved half a box of books, three garbage bags full of formal wear, an air mattress, and forty-two photos from childhood. In a different box: six candles, four plants, and a giant flag representing my state. I moved two boxes of kitchenware, seven movies, and a handful of precious jewelry. Proudly on display, a statue of a Maori deity, and a length of receipt paper with a list of opinions and long lost poetry. Hanging in the closet are eighteen scarves, graced by six varieties of shoes. Packed away somewhere are my wind chimes, and the lighthouse snow globe that pings like a music box.  My mirror looms stoically in the corner, overseeing the space, while it watches my face register the onslaught of a late-season cold. As the chaos becomes function, my worldly possessions scattered around me like aspen leaves, I wonder to myself: Is this who I am? What of these things enforces a definition? How can a small collection of inanimate objects so clearly reflect the way

Storytelling has a lot to do with lying  memory. In english classes, they tell you that the first thing to do when writing is to pinpoint your audience. Who would be most interested to hear what you have to say? In english class, however, your peers are more inclined to text with their boyfriend's roommate, or the girl from that freshman party, than listen to what you have to say. As a result, storytelling has to be < insert catchy word here >. Think spunky, or zippy. It has to draw the reader in, no matter who might be reading. Or listening. That means that you may have to leave something out for dramatic appeal, maybe exaggerate the good parts a bit; add some dramatic flair with a well placed pause. So, let's think about this real fast : Storytelling has to be intriguing and dramatically recited for a certain group of people that may or may not actually care. Unfortunately, trying to explain something that happened to you in the past is like trying to reassemble a

Calling Or Minding My Unnecessary Notations Is Crucial After The Insecurities Of Nothingness

Let me tell you a joke. A man says to a woman: Do you have a chicken farm? She responds: Um. No. At this point, woman begins to back away slowly. Escape unlikely. His punch line: Because you sure know how to raise a cock! That’s it. The alarm bells sound so loudly in your head that your ears start ringing and small pink dots float about in front of your eyes. It is time to get out. Get out now. You never think about how that man probably spent hours thinking of the perfect delivery, or at least have sat through lunch with that one awkward guy at his office to get that joke. Honestly, what’s a man to do? You (woman) sit there with your blatantly bisexual girlfriends and sixth shot of Grey Goose Vodka confidence and they have to think of something to say. So, they trust each other, begging advice, even from the guy you remember in college who dressed up as a used tampon for halloween. When it hit me, I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. Funny, for all that it reminds me of w