I'm really sorry I'm not that often in here and that I have not been able to answer you all. I will not be that much online due to some personal issues which I need to take care of and I'm hospitalized at the moment and I'm home for one night only before I have to go back. I hope you all understand and take care of yourself and I'm sorry. I love you all - love for everyone Okey, but seriously...I do miss the communication in here...damn hospitals and their "OMG! the world will end of a major virus caused by zombies with mental issues if we let the people laying here actually communicate with the outer world " So, yeh...

I have also written a membership profile in the club which you can read here: [link]

THE BIRD AND THE PAINTER
written by *Sigillium

I've been wishing for your music
I've been wishing for you to sing
But there's no life in my painting
He doesn't even look at me
And I think to myself and laugh
"What a waste of paint"

So I drink my tea and look out
At the bird in the tree outside
And it asks me
"Why aren't you being thankful?"
And I promised the bird to be so thankful

I don't want to sit here, depressed
And clearly see the dark clouds
Coming up over the sun on the sky
And it's starting to rain
So I put on my shoes and coat
And start to dance around in it

And the bird flies above me
Whisteling out a happy tune
And I smile and dance
Until my feet gets bloody
And the bird asks "doesn't that feel better?"

FEATURE:


SELF PROMOTION:

Also feel free to check out my literature submissions which is the number one reason I am in here

SPECIAL THANKS:
To my dear for creating this piece from inspiration of my song: [link]


To for featuring me in her news article which you can find here: [link]

To for featuring me in his journal which you can find here: [link]

And to for featuring me in his journal, which you can find here: [link]

MEMBER OF:


FRIENDS:


EDGAR ALLAN POE-ALONE
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.