Miss Melody

Well, let's start with a warning shall we? Those of you with a strong, central disgust, if you will, for personal expression through art or otherwise, need not read any further.

Now, my week has been exhausting; I had a damned good laugh at some extremely haggard persons in the village the other day.
No, not the sweet little tourists attraction that is my home.

My other home, I say, Down Town San Diego. It's such a beautiful place. Newly decorated with Misses idea of functional, expressive art? I think so.

Story:
I was bored shitless, mulling over the silly drama boy who's slowly, but surely tearing my heart ruthlessly from my ribcage. Then it hit me.

For Christ's sake, I was in San Diego, sitting at the computer in my Grandmother's bedroom. That's fucking pathetic. I had to get out of there; I needed to breathe something other than weed sneaking out from under my fathers bedroom door.

He's 43. Living with his mother. Smoking pot to pass the time. Good Lord right?

Well. After a humiliating hour of begging stoner to take me somewhere, I was in the front seat. Waiting...

I have a few friends. Well, I suppose I could say that I had more than a few, but only a few count. One, in particular, has been on my mind these past few weeks.

Meagin, my poet sister, as I've always known her. She's my best friend, and people question that. I suppose there should be a plethora of reluctancy from those who aren't used to the idea.

So many, many things come with change, and I often find even myself questioning their relation..

My dear poet sister, and myself, have such an appreciation for the written word. There hasn't been a time when her words, or her quoted lines from someone only too familiar, hasn't moved me into in a still break.

She calls me the reincarnate; says that my habits, tendancies, and simple mannerisms are only too parallel to her lady Dickinson. If only I felt obliged to such a comparison. Her lady's sweet words, textured style and wrenching story amaze me.

I can remember it clear as if it were only a moment ago; the first time I read her work. "Love is anterior to death". I remember breathing out the words with such a slow motion, such an inkhearted, indirected slow motion.

It's like she touched my soul...