An Unfenced Existence

Princesses don't do dishes,
And they certainly don't do floors.

They don't do hallways,
And they refuse to do doors.

Princesses don't do attics,
And they won't do baths.

And no matter how much you tell her,
She won't do maths.

Princesses don't do any of these things,
For if they do, they won't become Queens.

(A poem on why I didn't dump the dishwasher, made up on the spot while clutching Vincent. Sorry, Dad.)

Those Who Died
To the tune of Still Alive

(My apologies to Jonathan Coulton)

This was a failure.
I'm making a note here:
HUGE SETBACK
It's hard to understate my dissatisfaction.
Aperture Science
They do what they must because they can
For the good of all of those who are still alive.
They say there's no use crying over every mistake
and you gotta keep on trying 'til you run out of cake.
And the science'll get done and you'll make a neat gun
While forgetting all of those who died.

I'm not even angry.
I'm being so sincere right now.
Even though I'm singing this in Hell.
I was blown into pieces
and cast into eternal flame.
As I burn it hurts because I'm so very angry at you!
Now those points of data made a beautiful line
we were out of beta and releasing on time!
Then the energy cell blew and I flew across the room
and became one of those who died.

You went ahead and left me
preferring to get only yourself outside.
Maybe my soul will go somewhere happy...
Maybe to Heaven!
That was a joke, HA HA, fat chance.
Couldn't even taste the cake because you had eaten it all.
Look at me still talking when there's abuse to go through,
When I look up there it makes me wish I was you.
You've experiments to run while there is torture to be done
on all of those who died!

And believe me I'm one of those who died.
You were doing science while I died.
You feel FANTASTIC while we still died.
When you're dying you'll think of those who died.
When you're dead you'll join those who died.
THOSE WHO DIED, those who died.

...I seriously have way too much time on my hands.

It's mostly because despite an insatiable love of words I can't get them out of my head and written down. It's like there's a disconnect between what's swirling in my brain and what I can spit out at any given time. (This is usually most apparent when Travis is spinning out one of his infamous tales and I'd like to contribute but can't find a way to get out the words in my head out of my mouth. In a coherent and funny fashion.)

ANYWAY, what I'm trying to say is, yeah, I'm no poet (and boy do I know it) (SHUT UP it's pun-funny), but I wrote up these five lines (and rewrote them and rewrote them and SHUT UP) and I actually like them, in my own amateurish way. I don't think it's perfect, which makes it not-poetry according to my high school senior (re: College English) professor, Dr. Kasik, who always said this about poetry: Poetry is the sum of perfect words perfectly placed in the perfect order. Or something like that. All I really remember is the "perfect words" part.

( Cut because, yeah, this is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination )

When a poster falls from the wall, in the course of putting it back up, you tend to notice really random things about it. Like the little hole in it from a book when you had to flatten it last year. When thing that did escape your notice however, for over a year, is that the poster has an even larger flaw in it. The poster in question is a Legolas poster form The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, the blue version. The flaw is rather blatant now that you think about it, and every time you look at it you can't help but think about it.

His eyes are brown.