|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Dear Future MeDear future self.
I don't know when you'll read this or if you ever will. Will you be 18, 25, 35 or 50 years old? Who knows only time will tell. I know that the way I am now is maybe not the best I can be. I hope that you, I whatever will have changed myself to be a much kinder and better person but not losing myself along the way. I have been going through a really tough time right now (fall of 2012 remember?). So if you're reading this and thinking yeah I remember that and still want to cry then I will not be pleased with myself, but if you think that this tough time has made me a better person and led me to my dreams then I am proud.
But there are a few questions I'd like to ask such as:
Do I ever complete writing a book? I mean now at the age of 14 you have written like a million beginnings but never written more than a few pages.
If I ever completed a book did it get published? Please, please, please!
Do I ever get good at geography? I mean my geographic skills at the moment aren'
Halloween is the time to feedLucky me that it's Halloween.
Lucky me that I get to feed
Lucky me that the humans are outside.
Lucky me that I get someone to eat.
Splat, a little blood on the floor.
Splat, a little more.
Splat, a bunch of blood.
Splat, I want more.
Halloween is the time for me.
Halloween is when the monsters feed.
Halloween exist for things like me.
Halloween you're so sweet.
A little human to eat
A little thing to eat.
A little person to eat.
A whole town for me to eat
A Million Years AwayA MILLION YEARS AWAY
I looked at you,
I wanted to reach out,
Out to you
You were so close,
Yet so far
You were shining
No more like glowing,
A million years away,
You were so happy
Yet so sad
I want to reach out to you
But I can't,
You're just like a star
You look close
Yet you're a million years away
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
Keep in Touch!