| Pick-Up Sticks You don�t know me and never will. I don�t know me and hope I never will. I am not a cartoon of two dimensions, I live, instead, in my make-believe world. I keep my feelings locked in a box, tied with string, padlocked and glued, smushed down small, folded up tightly, frozen in an icebox, and thrown in the sea. My world is so magical; please don�t join me. My world is so small, made out of sticks, that if you knock out just one, it�ll fall into pieces. I�ve built the walls so carefully, brick by brick and board by board. Paint covers the walls and worn spots of age, I have used �most every color around. Lucky me, with so many rooms, each day I can pick another one. One is bright, one is dim, one is burned, and one is sparkling. One is for tears, one is for hugs, and one is for screaming at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I leave the front door unlocked, and I let some people in. They go through my foyer, and into my parlor, before stopping abruptly. They see the black walls dripping with blood, then run away madly. What can I say, I�m an unusual bird, and this house is just for me; with its tropical passions and scarred emotions always waiting for me. |
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