~As the days go by, the years of our love and happiness slips through our
fingers.
~Rainy days come, gloomy days go, sunny days will come, I am not ashamed to
be a bum.
~Everyone in this room is screaming, screaming in pain, screaming for help
some kind of help. They bang on the locked door, and stomp on the floor,
but no one comes, no one hears their cries, to them it seems like no one
cares about them. It is too late, they grey cans are thrown in the room.
The captives pray for the green fumes to stay in, but they flow out of the
tiny cans. The people are choking and gasping for air, 10, 20, 40, 60. They
lay on the floor as still and as cold as a rock. No one comes to help them,
no one. I
~Music, what is music? Is it a piece of metal with holes in it? Is it a
large piece of wood with pedals and ivory keys? Who invented music? Who was
the first person to write music, why did they want to write it? There is a
lot of music today. There are simply too many to name.
~Colors, red, yellow, blue. Those are the colors on my quilt upon my bed.
Green is not the color of a bean. Blue is the hair dye my cousin wants.
Randy was wearing yellow boxers yesterday.
~I found an old torn book
In an old and forgotten house.
I paused to take a look-
No one else was there but a mouse.
Its leaves were marked and torn,
Yes-and somewhere missing, I know;
But will to live was born
And made by this book to grow.
They call it Holy Writ-
This old torn book I had found.
Its lamps are always lit,
Causing eyes to look up, then down.
I went back home again,
And found my book of Holy Writ.
On the shelf it had lain;
I'll read 'till its lamps are relit.

~Eyes, blue, brown, green, red, purple, orange eyes are pretty things. You
see with them, you roll them; you bounce them up a tree.