Special Valentine's Day post to come later tonight

Dear Mr. Frost,

Come on, let's be honest:
Even though I really like his works
But with a name like Robert Frost,
You'd better be a damn good poet.

To the Impressive Poetess

Saying all I wish I could say hahaha

-

If I had but one day to spend with you

I would not know what to say.

Whilst I have admired your grace from afar,

And withered away my hours pouring over your every word

I think not what I would be able to say.

My every word I write;

My every word I think;

My every word I am

Becomes, and is, nothing in comparison to the words you have effortlessly wrote.

My but one day with you, I think

Would be my unraveling.

The mind is only a ball of thread

Each and every line of thought helplessly chasing after the other,

Weaving and winding into a great mess that sits deposited behind our empty eyes.

Yours was not

Or so I read

From this seemingly endless lines of imagery and fanaticism produced

Almost day in and day out.

So if I had but my day with you

You know why I would have nothing to say.

Nay, don’t confuse this with love,

For that is not what this is.

You are an unmarried woman, far beyond my time.

And I am just a fan of your words and your mind,

Not of your looks.

For love is foreign to me and I youthfully (ignorantly) detest it

And all it could offer me.

So say, let me be true,

I admire the works from you.

Everything that has ever blossomed from your pen has danced upon my ears,

Lit fires in my eyes,

And erected cathedrals in my minds.

If I had but my day with you,

I would not speak a single word.

Rather, I would sit and listen,

To you

And all the unsaid things left to be said.

new poem-ish thingy

It's called My Name

-

My name

I hope it's the one thing that catches in your throat

A rising fire on the back of your tongue

Spilling out into endless tides of word vomit

All aimed in attempt to mingle, mar, and destroy.

I hope it's a fire in your throat

One that you have to bite back and that forms tears in those empty eyes.

And I hope

That when my name catches in your throat

Like an infectious fire

It burns the tip of your tongue.

I hope that when it catches

You choke.

Granted, I'll be dreaming

it's called Granted, I'll be Dreaming

-

What if my pillow was a cloud

And drifted oh so high above the ground

Then, I’ll look down and see

Hey, you’re all just ants to me

My Deepest and Most Sincere Apologies...

OK, I'm aware I promised everyone a new post before Christmas or even the end of the year.

It never happened. I'm sorry.

What I thought was a great and brilliant idea kinda sorta fell through and I've been stuck with absolutely no ounce of creativity, attempting to divulge something to give you.

I think I found just that.

I let a friend read this the other day and they loved it so much they wanted the adventures of a particular Mr. Vinny Vegas to continue. So that's what I think I'm gonna do.

If you guys like Mr. Vinny Vegas in his first appearance, I will continue his epic saga of tripping acid, licking frogs that are actually toads, and running from ghosts who want to eat his soul or kill him for peanut butter.

So, I now present to you, an older work, about Mr. Vinny Vegas, the world renowned Kazoo rockstar.



I honestly have no idea why I didn't post this before now...

_________________________________________________________________________________

VINNY VEGAS: uno

 Vinny Vegas was confused.

                He didn’t understand why no one was paying him any attention. It irked him unbelievably.

                After all, he was a rock and roll star, the world famous kazoo player.

                A tall, balding man bumped into him. “Excuse me,” the man said, without even glancing back at Vegas. The man quickly boarded one of the New York Subway trains just moments before the doors shut.

                Vegas watched the rude man go, a sense of longing to be on one of the trains growing inside him. He’d love to go somewhere away from all these rude people, somewhere where he would be recognized for his kazoo-playing talent. But the ghosts wouldn’t let him go, so he was forced to stay.

                Vinny Vegas was currently being haunted by four very spiteful ghosts at his large estate in uptown New York. One, the one who seemed the most friendly when he wasn’t trying to scare the living daylights out of Vegas, was the ghost of a very pompous butler who had thinning hair rimming his head like a crown. The second ghost was that of an old Indian war chief. He didn’t know English that well, so he spoke in garbled phrases, like ‘ME KILL KAZOO MAN’, or ‘WHERE IS PEANUT BUTTER?’. The third ghost was that of a large trombone which was very pissed at Vegas for choosing to play the kazoo over an instrument like the trombone; for some odd reason, the trombone didn’t understand that it wasn’t a rock instrument like the kazoo was. The fourth and final ghost, however, was the one that scared Vegas the most. It was a four inch hamster named Mr. Tibbles who seemed to have developed a taste for Vegas’s toes and wanted to eat Vegas’s soul. Just the thought of Mr. TIbbles made Vegas rub his toes nervously.

                Vinny Vegas continued to wander around the subway station. He had been taking refuge here as of late so that he didn’t have to spend mind-chilling nights in his house. He even debated sleeping in one of the bathroom stalls, but after he saw that little, greasty homeless man completely miss the toilet, Vegas couldn’t even step inside a bathroom without having the urge to vomit; Vegas may be a rockstar, but he had some hygiene standards that most hoboes didn’t meet.

                It wasn’t before long that Vegas found himself walking back to his house. The subway had grown dreary and smelly from all the hot bodies forced upon each other in an air conditioned room, sweating like pregnant nuns whenever there was a social event.

                When Vegas walked into his house, the first noise he heard was a sudden downpour of crashing pots coming from the kitchen. Groaning, Vegas made his way into the kitchen.

                The Indian War Chief Ghost was standing in the sink, admiring his reflection in a metal pasta strainer while licking peanut butter off of a spoon he was wielding.

                “KAZOO MAN.” The War Chief shouted, pointing his spoon at Vegas before chucking it at him. Vegas was forced to quickly duck out of the way of the spinning spoon, which left a wicked looking peanut butter smear on the wall as it smacked into it. “KAZOO MAN MUST DIE.” The Chief shouted, “SO SACRED PEANUT BUTTER IS SAVED.”

                Vegas rolled his eyes. “Do you want more peanut butter?”

                The War Chief shot out of the sink. “WAR CHIEF NEED MORE PEANUT BUTTER SO WAR CHIEF CAN KILL WEAK KAZOO MAN.”

                Vegas shook his head. “Then go get it.” He grabbed a jar of peanut butter from the counter and threw it into the next room. The War Chief let out a yell and ran through the wall, searching for the jar of peanut butter.

                Vegas started cleaning up the mess the War Chief left behind when the Butler walked in.

                “Has he started rioting for peanut butter now?” the Butler asked in his smug tone, glancing down at Vegas.

                Vegas threw a knife in frustration at the Butler, but it just passed right through him like he was smoke.

                The Butler gave Vegas a smug look before disappearing. Vegas wished he was a ghost so he could actually rip apart the Butler and actually cause him pain.

                Vegas was still cleaning up when the Trombone blasted in his ear. Ears ringing, Vegas stumbled over a few pots and pans, momentarily losing focus on where he was. When his ears finally stopped ringing, he became aware the Trombone was standing over him, it’s horn pointed in his face.

                Vegas covered his face as the Trombone tooted at him. “HONK, HONK, HONK HONK HONK, HON HONKKKKKKKK.” Which was obviously Trombone speak for, “Now, if you weren’t a kazoo player, maybe the Indian War Chief wouldn’t be trying to kill you. Just another reason you should’ve played the Trombone.”

                “But the Trombone’s not a rock instrument!” Vegas roared at the Trombone from behind his hands. The Trombone responded by angrily tooting at him before flying off.

                Vegas still hadn’t gotten off the ground when he heard a squeaking noise beneath his fae. Slowly, his blood turning cold, he raised his head; staring at him from between his feet, Mr. Tibbles twitched its nose excitedly.

                “NO!” Vegas roared, scrambling backwards, “YOU CAN NOT EAT MY SOUL OR MY TOES!”

                At the word ‘toes’, Mr. Tibbles shuffled forward excitedly, whizzing right for Vegas’s toes. Vegas yelled and started running backwards, grabbing pots and pans to throw at Mr. Tibbles, who eventually vanished in a puff of smoke.

                Scared, Vegas ran into his bathroom and unwittingly locked the door, not realizing that doors didn’t stop ghosts, just like putting your hands under running water didn’t stop its flow. He ran over to his pet frog, the only love of his life (besides the kazoo) named Mr. Kermit the Frog. However, unlike the actual Kermit the Frog, Mr. Kermit the Frog was not a puppet, nor was he cute and bright green. IN fat, he wasn’t actually a frog. He was a large, ugly, brown colored toad known as the Wasamachie Toad of Southern Florida, world renowned because its poisonous acid causes people to trip, hence why the South Florida Society for A Better South Florida Life has been frequently caught licking these toads during their meetings.

                “This is ending right now, Mr. Kermit,” he told the toad, who stared back at him lazily, as if to say, your face looks like a fly. Are you food? “Just relax, Mr. Kermit, I’m calling the cops.” Vegas said before doing so.

                Vegas answered the door for the cops while holding Mr. Kermit the Frog (who isn’t actually a frog but a toad). The two cops walked in, eyeing the toad suspiciously before they whispered something to each other.

                ‘Thank God, you’re here!” Vegas almost shouted at them. “My house is being haunted b ghosts and they all want to kill me!”

                One of the cops, a big, burly man, raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “The ghosts want to kill you?”

                “YES!” Vegas was now shouting at them. “And one of them, a hamster named Mr. Tibbles, wants to eat my soul!” As Vegas said this, Mr. Tibbles ran up between the two cops. “HE’S RIGHT THERE!” Vegas yelled, grabbing the cops and pulling them forward. “HE’S GOING TO EAT YOUR SOUL!”

                The cops fought off Vegas before hammering him down to the ground and cuffing him.

                “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Vegas yelled at them. “HE’S GOING TO EAT YOUR SOUL!”

                The burly cop slammed Vegas’s face into the ground. “You’re tripping,” the cop told him through gritted teeth. “It’s all a poison the toad secretes.”

                The cops dragged Vegas out of the house. The last thing Vegas saw was Mr. Tibbles twitching his nose excitedly.