Thursday, September 20, 2012

Honesty is the best Policy

In my room there is a box.

In that box is a journal.
In another box-
A diary.

One holds emotions in poems and stories.

One holds secrets in entries and dates.

Both tell a story.


When I was little, my mother said I used to sit in front of the T.V. and point whenever Disney World Appeared, saying "Mom, I want to go there, I want to go there!"
and she looked at me and said "Ok honey" With a smile.

Or at least, thats how she recalls it.

 I don't remember very much.

When we got there, the first thing I did was fall, and scrape my hands. It didn't hurt. It didn't matter, because everyone kept asking me "Are you okay? Oh God here we go" Or something like that. I started crying I suppose. If they hadn't made a big deal of it I don't think I would have.

My father didn't come with us
Did I have a little sister?

These are the things I'm thinking about.

Who was that man who was with us?
Was his name Stan or Steve?

He created my little sister.
She doesn't know.

My father missed me when I got back. He bought me that thing from T.V...where there is a board with rainbow paper, and you scrape the black goo away with the red scraper. They always made a cat. My father made me a cat.

I think they used to love me.

Everyone tells me I'm hard to figure out.

My father always told me I made a better door than a window.

I dont remember what this was on about.

Don't tell my sister.


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