Tea With Plath.Sometimes when I get sadI pretend that I’m having tea with Sylvia Plath.And she’s sitting there talking,Going “I am. I am. I am.”And listening to me.Pretending my thoughts are important.But by the time the time is over,We’ll be in perfect sync,Sylvia and I.Both whispering,“We are. We are. We are.”
.She says she didn't do it,but you know she's lying.You know it's just an act for the audience.It's just a trick.You know she did it.You know she killed her.You know she stabed her.Murdered.Blood.Guts.Dead.So why is she lying?
The Doctor.He says he’s a time lord.That he wants to take me into his phone boothHe calls the tardis.That he wants to take me to the future,to the Middle Ages,or to World War II Europe.Whichever I prefer.He says we need to go to outer space,that we need to stop the Daleks.I say, “Who are you?”He says, “The Doctor.”“Doctor who?” I ask.He says, “Just the Doctor.”And pulls me into the phone booth.
Where The Lovely Things Are.Lovely is a fall day.With the wind blowing and leavesfall, fall falling.Red, orange and brown.Lovely is happiness.Being able to smile and laugh and mean it.Lovely is the sound of your favourite band,the singer wailing in the background.Drums, guitars and vocals.Lovely is love.Even though I have never experienced it,It seems lovely.Caring for someone and knowing they feel the same.Knowing that nothing else can take that feeling away.Knowing that nothing else can compare.Lovely is a summer's day.As different as a fall day as can be.Yet still lovely in its own right.Lovely is everywhere.You just have to find it.“Lovely, lovely, lovely…wow.”
Stars.“Aren’t they beautiful?” She asks. It’s a windy day and the two of us are sitting on a hill looking at the night sky. She has a way of doing this, a way of taking the simplest things-the everyday things- and making them special. This is what I like about her, this is what keeps me coming back and talking. This is what keeps me coming back and wanting to stay.“Yeah,” I say. “They are.”The stars are sensational. They’re like light bulbs. They keep blinking on and off, twinkling. I like to think that there is someone out there, some type of greater force turning them on and off. Making them flicker for us.“You know,” she says. “We’re made out of them.”I smirk and nod my head as if to say ‘go on’.She looks at me and smiles. “I’d like to think that in all of us there are stars, burning deep inside of our souls, waiting to be let out.”As she