She knew what i was talking about…

Joy left me a message the other day.

“The ugliest thing,” the voice mail started, “is a tree flayed of her skin.”

What the hell? I thought.

“…is a rain, there is no forrest.”

What the hell is this nonsense? She was obviously reading something.

“…is tall cool glass of polluted water.”

This is retarded. What the hell is she reading? But it was strangely familiar.

“….is a nice thick layer of smog over your head.”


“…is a huge magnificent elephant that will be shot only for it’s ivory.”

It was that point I deleted the message, hung up and immediately called her. I knew exactly what she was reading.

“Where did you get it?” I asked.

“Get what?” She replied. She knew what I was talking about.

“You know what I’m talking about. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, your poem? I was cleaning up and found it in my closet. I found two more. Hang on…”

Yes, I wrote some poems in college. No homo.

She came back to the phone, a little breathless. Probably from rushing to find the poems to make fun of me. Probably from laughing. Probably both.

“This one’s called Storm,” she said. And started reading.

“My well is dry…”

“STOP!” I pleaded. It was bad enough I wrote them. The absolute last person I wanted to read them to me was my sister.

“I’ve been wandering…”

She wasn’t stopping.

I let her finish.

“Why do you even have them? Where did you get them?” I asked when she was done.

“I don’t know.”

Translation: I took them from your room so I can make fun of you later on down the road.

“Ug,” I said. “I hate you.”

“I saved the best for last,” she said, a lilt in her voice.

“That’s okay, I don’t need to hear it.”

“It’s called She Comes.”

“NO! DON’T READ IT! I DON’T NEED TO HEAR IT!I didn’t remember the words to that one, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was about.

“She comes…fluid, graceful, like a jungle cat…”


It’s not often I hang up on my sister, but sometimes I just have to.

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A “no homo” can not even dare to save you from that.

πŸ˜† πŸ˜† πŸ˜† πŸ˜† πŸ˜†

Good job, shakespeare. :thumbsup:



Oh fuck, I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.


Team Joy, all the way, baby!


There has got to be a way of getting Joy to post the whole thing! I demand the full version of each poem… Joy?



That’s what you get for writing poetry :shake:

Sparkling Red

Which is worse? Old poems, or old diaries?
If someone read my old diaries aloud to me, I’d have to find them and kill them right away.

Sparkling Red

Oooo… Go dig! I’ll be back to see if you find anything. πŸ˜‰

sparkling Red

OK, obviously I haven’t figured out how to do the emoticon thing.
Better stick with the old-fashioned ones. This one stands for shame: :-[

Sparkling Red


πŸ˜‰ ;;)

sparkling Red

Huzzah! :rimshot: