The Scribbler is up and running!

Monday, November 29, 2011 the Scribbler editors met ready to discuss how to set out on turning what was Spork into the Scribbler. And we did it. The first step: make a new website. And two of our editors made the new site, check out the Scribbler at http://scribblermagazine.blogspot.com/ for new submissions and new news on Hudson High School's art and literary magazine.

Sincerely,
Editor in Chief
John McLean

The Scribbler

The Hudson High School Art and Literary Magazine now has a new name... the Scribbler. Spork is no longer. The decision came down to a very close vote, and the editorial staff spent much time debating what to name the magazine. At the end the Scribbler was chosen because the staff thought that it best represented what we wanted the art and literary magazine to be.

We hope you love the name!

Sincerely,
Editor In Chief
John McLean

Teamwork by Kyah Eichholz

All he could hear was the quick pounding of his heart and the sound of his bare feet slapping against the cold stone of the street as he ran. Every breath was painful and his side felt like someone was constantly twisting a knife between his ribs, but still he ran. Darting down the nearest alley, Rathbone skidded to a stop and attempted to catch his breath. His lungs burned as he filled them with the cool air. Moving further into the alley, he tried to catch his breath and find somewhere to hide so he could finally sleep. We should be far enough away now that they won’t find us for a while. He noticed what was once someone’s tool shed peaking up over the brick wall. Scaling the brick, he hopped over the wall and narrowly missed a clothesline. Rathbone landed less than gracefully with a small “Oof.” Dragging himself up again, he stumbled over to the dilapidated shed and found a nice hidden spot next to some flower pots and an ancient bag of seed. Thankfully Zeev was quiet. Curling up, sleep quickly overcame him.
***
Rathbone knew he had to escape. He would go mad if he didn’t, but the question was how? He was in a high security facility, surrounded by hundreds of guards, on one of the highest floors, in a room with no windows, chained to a wall, and in a straightjacket. The odds were not on his side. Oh, and to top it all off, the guy in the cell next door had been singing the same verse of “What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor?” for the past four days, keeping him from some much needed sleep. Also, Zeev would not leave him alone. We could kill the singing guy, come on, it’d be fun! Just imagine it, tearing his vocal cords ou-
Shut up Zeev. First of all, he’s in the other room and we’re here; second, when I get out of this room, I’m booking it and getting out of here, and third, unless you actually have a plan to get out of here, I suggest you can it so I can think.
A little touchy today, aren’t we? Well okay, have it your way, I’ll quiet down.
Rathbone was not looking forward to spending the rest of his life with Zeev’s incessant, snarky, and graphically violent chatter invading his brain. If he did find the last of the scientists who did this to him as he escaped he just might act on a few of Zeev’s suggestions.
You know-
Really?! Can you go three seconds without talking?
I was just going to suggest using some of my power to get the jacket and the chains off, but hey, if you’re enjoying them, I won’t stop you.
Wait, you can get these off?
I am a Hell Hound after all.
Okay, what do I do?
Let me have control.
No. No, no, no, no and NO. The last time I let you have control I ended up in this room next to the wannabe-pirate. This just screams bad idea.
Do you want to get out of here? Because I sure as hell do. Look, like it or not, we are stuck with each other. If you want to escape, and as much as I hate to say this, we need to work together. I don’t like this whole situation anymore than you do, and news flash for you, I ended up with the worse end of the deal. I lost my body when our souls were forced together and now I’m stuck in your pathetic body, no offense.
Offense taken.
Whatever, but anyway, my point is, give me some control and I’ll give you the body back when I’m done. Rathbone thought about it. It was a tough call, on one hand, they would be free to investigate the door and escape, on the other hand, letting Zeev have control was like letting a madman have a gun.
All right, I’m giving you just a small amount of control. Zeev responded by drawing on his powers and adding to Rathbone’s strength. Zeev straightened out his arms, breaking the buckles in the back. Then he mentally unlocked the manacles around their wrists and feet. His power faded back to normal.
See, now we’re free.
Why didn’t you suggest this earlier? Never mind. Do you have any other ideas to get us out? Rathbone finished getting the other buckles off and removed the straightjacket, leaving him only in his pants now.
Fresh out of ideas sorry, and the first thing on our list of things to as we escape should be to get a shirt. Damn, it’s cold.
Rathbone nodded in response as he walked over to the door. Putting his ear against it he listened for any sound of a guard. I don’t hear anything? Do you?
I hear what you hear, remember? No more Hell Hound hearing anymore, I’d need my ears for that.
Some help you are, useless dog.
Hey! Rathbone tried the door.
Locked.
Well no kidding! They’re just going to leave all the cells unlocked so the experiments can waltz right out of the building, useless human.
Rathbone just rolled his eyes. Lend me some power.
Oh, so now you need my power, I thought was a useless dog.
Come off it. I need to unlock the door, now lend me some power or do it yourself. Rathbone felt Zeev’s power seep into his hand and he willed the door to unlock. With a small click the door opened. Rathbone peeked around the door, and seeing that the coast was clear, stepped out into the guard station for this cluster of cells. He noticed a closet off to the right. He opened it and found a shirt. Happy to have the warmth, he ignored the fact that it was three sizes too large. Rolling up the sleeves, he searched the room for anything useful. Rathbone found a letter opener.
What’s the letter opener for? Are you going to make sure they send out the correct mail?
No. Since they have nothing else in here to use a weapon, we’ll just have to make do with this.
We? As in I get to use that as means of carnage? The sound of pure glee in Zeev’s voice scared Rathbone.
Yes, we. You said it before, we need to work together to get out of here. I’ll give you control of my body as long as you don’t suppress my mind and listen to my plan.
Okay, you’ve got a deal, Capitano. Opening the door, they walked down the hall, Zeev had control of the body and his powers; Rathbone retained his mind and told Zeev his plan of escape.
Basically, we are going to get to the first level, sneak out past the guards, and make a run for it. You have my permission to kill guards if we are threatened, but if one of the scientists comes, I want to share the body as revenge for this. Head for the back stairs, we can probably get to the lower stairs the best that way.
They creped down the hall care to avoid windows, as they were almost to the staircase, one of the doors opened and a smallish guard came out. Instead of freezing like Rathbone normally would, Zeev sprang on the guard and proceeded to clamp his hand over the guard’s mouth holding the letter opener to his neck, right near the artery. “Say one word and I will not hesitate to kill you. You’re going to be my meat shield and you’re going to help us get out of here.”
What are you doing?! This was not part of the plan; we’re not taking him along.
Shut it. There are tons of guards who will not hesitate to drag us back up here, now we have leverage.
Good point, but now we can’t take the stairs because he will be harder to control there. Take the elevator on our right. Zeev continued to lead the guard down the hall and had him press the elevator button. If Rathbone had been in control of the body, he would have crossed his fingers hoping the elevator would be empty. It was.
Eight floors and some awkward muzak later, the doors opened to reveal a floor full of guards waiting to get on the elevator. They stared in shock at the elevator with the escapee(s) holding the guard hostage. The doors closed and Zeev kicked the button for the next floor down.
The doors opened to the first floor. They were in a small, back hallway that led to the lobby of the building. Pushing the hostage guard forward, Zeev and Rathbone proceeded to the lobby. Thankfully it was devoid of people. Rathbone happened to note, out of the corner of the body’s eye, the clock on the wall stating the time as two o’clock. Due to the darkness on from the windows, he concluded it must be early in the morning.
Just then, they heard the thundering of boots coming from the back staircase. We got get out of here, pick up the pace.
I would, if shufflely in front of me here would stop dragging his feet.
FORGET the guard and run!
But then we have no leverage. If we have no leverage, we’re as good as dead.
We will be dead if you don’t get us moving!
But-
Give me control back! We got to run.
No. I’m in charge of the body; we’re doing this my way.
It’s my body and I’ll make the calls. With that they started to struggle for power. They heard a bunch of tiny clicks and turned to see all the guards surrounding them, all with guns drawn and aimed. “Well, crap,” they said in unison.
You can have your body back now.
Thanks. You know, this wouldn’t have happened if you just listened to me.
We can argue this later, but right now we have bigger problems.
“Experiment 134 RZ, do not move. If you let go of the guard and peacefully come to be detained, no one will get hurt,” one of the guards said, still training the gun on them.
Let’s back up toward the door a little more, and then on the count of three, I say we push the guard forward and then run.
Sounds like a plan, I’ll give you the body since you’re actually used to running in this thing, and I usually run as a quadruped. They started to slowly back up.
“Stay where you are 134 RZ! Don’t do anything rash.
Forget that! 1.
2.
3.
“NOW!” Pushing the guard forward, Rathbone turned and ran into the night. They were not far out of the city, and since they would blend and disappear more easily in a big city, they ran there.
***
When Rathbone awoke, the afternoon sun was streaming through the shed’s grime covered windows. Getting to his feet, he could feel the stiffness in his legs from last night’s run.
I’m hungry.
Me too, but we are in a huge city, with no money, hospital style clothes, and a whole bunch of angry guards and scientists on our trail, not exactly the best odds.
Oh, you have so much to learn. First off let’s start by grabbing some of the clothes off the clothesline just outside, and then we’ll tour the city.
But what about money?
Who needs money when one has magic?
Oh boy. Rathbone just shook his head, hoping that they wouldn’t be caug

Spork or not to Spork: Could a name change be in the works?

Spork is the Hudson High School Art and Literary Magazine and it may be getting even more of make-over. This year Spork has been going through a ton of new changes such as a different looking blog, a new editorial staff. Whats next? Changing the name!

On the Monday November eight the editorial staff started the meeting off with a conversation about the name. And we decided that we wanted to change it. On Tuesday November fifteenth the editorial board will meet again and vote for a new name.

Stay posted to find out all of the new Spork! news by checking this blog!

-John McLean; Editor in Chief.

Take Time To Thank A Veteran Tomorrow by John McClellan (This article was previously published fifteen years ago in the Hudson Sun.)

I read in the paper today about the death of a man who never knew me, even though our paths and crossed on more than one occasion. I found out through his obituary some things that I never would have known about this man if I hadn't read it in the paper.

I first saw Joe "The Hook" about twenty-three years ago when my life was all about struggling through school, "hanging the Main," and trying to come to terms with my country's involvement in the Vietnam War. After school most days my friends and I would go down-town to sit on the wall or the town hall lawn to just enjoy the day and our youth. Once in a while Joe, a guy who looked much like Jimmy Durante, would come by and play a tune on the spoons or his harmonica for us. He really wasn't one of us, but he wasn't one of the regular establishment of adults, either. He was a nice guy, and never seemed to bother any-one.

Back on the home-front I had two brothers in the military, Paul in the Army, and Dan in the Marines. Both had enlisted voluntarily in the service of their country during a time when other guys their age were dodging an unfair, unjust draft system. They even signed up to each do a tour of duty in Vietnam. I had a hard time understanding their logic, as I was active in the movement to end this horrible, terrible war. I was as active as a fifteen year old could be. I went to the anti-war rallies, wrote letters to the government, and showed support for the anti-war movement whenever I could. I felt so strongly that the United States was totally wrong about this war that I did not even stand up for the Pledge of Allegiance or participate in the singing of the National Anthem at school or anywhere else. My brothers and their friends shouldn't have been in Vietnam,and I felt that it was my country's fault they were.

Well, the war ended, and both of my brothers came home physically unharmed from the war. Unfortunately, some of their friends did not. I was still bitter about the whole Vietnam thing, but happy to have my brothers back.

We all got older. Dan did his duty and moved on to a regular life. Paul remained in the service, and another brother, Tom and my sister Margaret joined the military. I quit hanging the Main; and started going to bars and clubs and drove my motorcycle and enjoyed the freedoms that my brothers and my father fought for. I ran across Joe "The Hook" now and again, and by now just considered him a regular part of the Hudson scene, like so many other people I see, but don't know.

One day my brother Paul and I were watching a military formations marching past us, flags flying, and veterans in uniform, with a whole patriotic feel to the event. I was sitting on the sidelines on a bale of hay, when Paul bent down and whispered in my ear "Stand up when the flag goes by." I didn't stand up, nor did I think of standing up. I just shrugged it off as "Paul's thing" while I was doing "my thing." Paul never raised his voice to me in his life before, and always would try to understand my feelings and ideas, but after this event, back at home, Paul and I got into the biggest argument that I had even gotten into with anyone in my life. He convinced me that day of the importance of Patriotism and Love for country. Since that day, I have never remained seated when the flag went by.

Today I read in the paper that Joe was a veteran of World War II, had received the Purple Heart Medal and four Bronze Stars and had served his country honorably. This got me to thinking about all of the times I could have told "The Hook," and all the other who never made it back to their hometowns "Thanks, thanks for having what it takes to join your fellow veterans to keep America safe and free for me and my friends."

My brother Paul is gone now, and so is Joe, and Dave Palmieri, and Kenny Thibault and my Father-in-law. I'll never be able to say thanks to them, but on Nov. 11, Veterans' Day, I'm going to observe the local Veterans' Day Services, rain or shine, and I;m going to stand up when the flag goes by, and I'll make sure that my kids do, too. I will also be thanking every veteran from the bottom of my heart, and I hope and pray that if you know a veteran you will do them a favor and let them know that you appreciate what they've done for us. Please thank them in person, before they're gone.

Thank you, Veterans everywhere, and God Bless America.

Light by John McLean

Movement;
A spark glowing in the transcendent light
Moving through one's body
Across the wood.

Dancing along the words
Singing on the limbs
Words being expressed through
Jump, kick, lift, run.

Spot;
Damned spot!
Showing flaw,
Showing pain.
All in the spotlight.

Baked Potatoes by Catherine Zacchilli

Poking holes in the top and the sides of the
raw potato makes my stomach growl.
I open the door to the black microwave,
and hit the baked potato button hoping it will be
done soon.
Having the potato going around in
circles, on the glass plate in the
microwave, makes me go insane.
I just have to walk away, until
I hear the microwave make a sound.
Which sounds like,
BEEP!

The butter inside the cut backed potato
slowly begins to melt.
Topped with sour cream, melted cheese, and
bacon bites.

I stab my fork on the end of the potato
to get a piece of the
irresistible
baked potato.

As I keep eating the baked potato,
it keeps getting smaller and smaller.
I use the last few pieces to clean
the sour cream up from my plate.
The last bite makes me sad,
because its gone.
Once I finish the baked potato,
I am stuffed from the loaded baked potato.
The baked potato can not last forever.

Nightfall by Ashley Osmecki

A hint of air, imagine
a bright daisy in a shattered field.
Crickets breathed cruel and brittle musk.
I've been cheated; I've been choked,
and could not breathe in good words.
These thoughts ultimately bring such darkness.
There will be no traffic in me. The shame is
to torch and to teach.
Defenselessness haunts me.
I argue casually, with chills,
despite my arrogance. Go,
no need for such corruption.
Burdened again, dressed and grouchy,
no situation changes me,
material as lace.

Sacred by Andrea Fahey

Today my mother gave me a church-
Be good to it Mollie, it is sacred

It's a white church that sits on Beth Hill-
a quart of mud and marble on bread.
Saints and hail rain on this month of March.

Preacher, please help me.
Her breath reaches its height-
Go right now and fetch me some tea, amen.

I watched Mother dance down the aisle,
her hands touching in prayer position.
My heart aches for her.

Thunder in the distance smells magnificent.
Mother is gone. I kneel to pray.

Transformation by Lauren Costedio

No thoughts of me
at summertime. It's a total liberation.
Sure, or not healing,
I rest my shy face.
Change me,
teach me to go.
Oh the lighting says, "Love you goodly,
love always."
I gain peace when there is detachment
which I choose at once.
I sigh,
everything detaches.
I begin dreaming, something
gained in the time and space.
Ache to see. I am
creating. See I am
light.

Careless Mollie By Karleen Delorme

Brittle Mollie, who's so careless
plays in the mud
She doesn't hear her cries
the cries that made a creek
the creek that turned into a river
a river that flows around the mountain.

It's as if Mollie
is ignoring the music that crosses her ears.

Mollie create your dream cloud
and the stairs to stop your cries.

Healing by Michaela Savell

The world died ten years ago. It was nothing but a depleted corpse the year following, filled with burnt fragments of life passed. The ashes were washed away by the rain, but the souls of the city were stained.
New York still feels the pain from those scars.
Glass and debris still litter the streets, but nothing can be seen. A ghostly plane of death streaks the sidewalks, scenting of car exhaust and lit cigarettes. Lively coffee shops sprinkle the drab, as do the TV screens bringing life to Times Square. Laughter radiates the screens, dyed various shades of greens and blues. Buses swerve out of the way of zealous pedestrians and the cat-call of taxis dapple the skyline.
Pigeons coo. Teenagers swear. The chaos of the city becomes a lifeline, an alarm to that wakes millions from their lengthy slumber. Patterns train the eye, smells tempt the nose, and same tunes play on the blaring radios, over and over again. Dreams are awakened faces of exhaustion fade. Immigrants come. The needy come. The rich waste their lives away.
Then there is silence. Emptiness. No emotion. No sound.
Here once stood towers of lass, stretching towards the leavens with twin hands.
Gone are the faces of thousands that had broken this sadness. Gone are the failures. Gone are the dreams. Pain is conjured up at the sight of nothingness. Hatred is directed towards scapegoats. All negativity lays a foundation to the eye. Darkness seeps into the earth, but light does too; some have found forgiveness through the horror. Some have found life.
The would move on, but doesn’t forget. Although scarred, it works towards the healing it so desperately needs.

Moving Out by Andrea Fahey

Growing up my house was always messy. We were always one of those families that scrambled to pick up the house as best we could whenever we would be having company. This same tactic was used when our house all of a sudden went up for sale. Dino, an old friend of my dad’s and now our realtor, would sometimes call unexpectedly telling my parents someone would be coming to look at the house shortly. This is when all hell broke loose and our house turned into a war zone. My mom and dad shouting out orders, “Andrea, you and Stephen cover the living room, Tommy, you clean up the basement, Brian go make sure your room isn’t a pig sty!”
I hated how that Century 21 Real Estate Sign sat in the corner of your yard and all the emotions it would soon bring to me. My brothers and I would sometimes throw rocks at the sign and try and destroy it, thinking that would somehow fix our situation. The tears finally came when SOLD was posted on to that already horrible sign, as if it wasn’t bad enough.
There was nothing I could do to change the fact that we were moving, I just had to accept this fact and try to look on the bright side. But back then I couldn’t think of a bright side. The feeling of moving boxes lined the walls of our house. Day by day our house felt less and less like home as the picture frames, books, and decorations from each room were packed away in boxes labeled and taped. We must have gone through twenty rolls of that moving tape throughout the whole process. Packing up my room was the worst! My Amazing Days of Abbey Hayes books and the numerous diaries I had filled with the honest truth from first to sixth grade had their own box. While packing those books and diaries into the boxes, I cried. Tears fell from my eyes as I read all of the entries of the life that I would be leaving. Countless pages were filled of the names of my numerous elementary school crushes, I love Brad and I love Sean, or the occasional A.F + J.S = LOVE. I cried too while reading all of my stories about David, the dark haired boy who lived in the house up the street from me, who was also my best friend. I was coming to the realization that I would be leaving the blue walls of my room forever. I threw away the Andrea’s Room sign that I had drawn in bubbles letters with purple marker because it simply wasn’t going to be my room anymore. My bedroom, the sanctuary of my home, the place where I would stay up late with my friends whispering and sharing secrets with one another no longer belonged to me. It was wired think about MY room, would soon become someone else’s bedroom. I wondered if I was leaving it to a girl like me to fill it with her own posters and pictures, or if it were to be transformed into a boy’s room, or maybe even an office. I wondered if the walls would stay that shade of blue that I loved and was so indecisive on that one spring day in Home Depot when I decided I wanted to paint my room.
I woke up early that day in late August 2007. My mom and dad already began to pick up the rented moving truck. I never realized how red the carpets were until I saw my house so bare and empty. As everything that made out house a home made its way into the crammed moving truck it was time to say our goodbyes.
My mom’s old piano was the last thing piled into the truck. We were giving it to David’s family in fear that we wouldn’t have enough room for it in our new home and also because his younger sister Sophia was beginning to play the piano thanks to my mother’s lessons. Confused, my brothers and I watched my mom climb in to the back of the truck. We watched her play the piano in the back of the truck all the way up the street to David’s house. Her favorite Irish songs echoed through the street of 235 Tisdale Street on her old, slightly out of tune piano.

When by Jessia Pereira

When the fears scare you away.
When the dreams chase you down the wrong path.
When the light doesn't reach the dark.
And when the tears don't help the aftermath.
It comes down to a choice.
Do you stay
Or leave?
When the heart argues with your head,
the answer can not be retrived.

Memories by Monica Swanton

I trace my fingers along the wrinkled leather
and I'm instantly hit with a rush of nostalgia.

There's the pink nail polish splatter from my cousin's sleepover party.
And the cherry soda stain from my last birthday.
That's the thick streak of Sharpie from a recent art project.
And the buttery popcorn pieces from last Friday's movie night.
There's the pen mark from my biology studying session,
I suppose that was one too many Punnett squares...
This is the dried wax from the vanilla christamss candle.
Here are the scratches from the claes of our new puppy...
That's the sticky smudge of barbecue sauce from when my brother
was too lazy to get the paper towels.

I grab a pillow and smll the fresh Febreeze,
This is the pillow I used
to cover my eyes when we watched Friday the 13th.
Here's the blanket I found wrapped around me
when I woke up the following morning.

I listen to the echoes of laughter and conversation
That make me relive good times and sad times.
This is where I was when I fought out
The sad news about Grandma.
And the good news about Aunt Mildred.

Home to my lost cell phone for many days.
Where the winner of Scrabble was chosen countless times.

Here, I spent most of
My sick days,
Lazy Saturdays,
Sweltering summers,
And Super Bowl Sundays.

Some people look at this couch and see
Nothing more than a sorry looking sofa
With saggy cushions and lumpy pillows
And a block of wood propped under the right leg
But I,
I look at this couch and see my memories.
And every time I flop down onto the soft cushions,
I relive old memories and make new ones.

Haikus by Jessica Pereira

Dark angles above,
Come resuce me from today.
I want to join you.

I can choose their fate.
His, hers, theirws, and yours like that.
I could be in charge.

That way we all get
What er deserve and no less,
Especially you.

Vacation Land by Emily Tucker

My knees crack as I step out of the car, the fresh air feels like home. It feels like we drove for hours, just to pull up to the same old house, the blue paint fading and the white porch chipping. I can’t tell if it was worth it or not,I remembered it being different the past times I had been there. Now it was empty, the trees looked older, the grass not as green. A memory flashed into my mind as I limped my way up the front steps. It was midmorning, everyone scrambling to finish packing, when someone out of the dozen decided it would be a good idea to take a family picture. The photo flashed before my eyes and I smiled, had it really been that long since the whole family had been there together? It had only been a year since I had walked the front steps but even then the memories had never been so clear.
The scent of cigarette smoke filled my nose as the door opened. “Mom, where are you?” my Grammy shouted from the front room. “Is that you Diane?” my great grandmothers faint voice came from upstairs.
The stairs cracked beneath my feet as I stumbled up the steep steps. I opened the furthest door on the left. It was exactly as I had remembered it. Completely pink, with lace and all. I had no sooner unpacked and collapsed onto the double bed when Bampy, my grandfather, hollered up the stairs “Anyone up for a Timmy Ho’s trip?” I ran down the stairs, sliding my sandals on as I walked out the door. Finally, I can have my Tim Hortons bagel and iced coffee I had been craving for over a year.
Driving down the main road all I saw was familiar places, the small little bakery my Grammy swore had the best bread, the Scotia Bank, and of course Archibalds Warf, or as we call it, the boardwalk. Turning into the drive through of Tim Hortons, ordering a dozen Tim Bits, an Ice Cap and bagel, enough snacks to last a few days.
“Where to next?” Bampy asked me. “Can we go and see the girls?” The girls were my 3rd cousins, all around the same age as me. I had pictures of us as toddlers making cookies, and pictures of us as teenagers having movie nights. But all those years in between, they were lost.
Click, click, click, the blinker was on. Turning onto Archibald Ave, passing St. Josephs Church, and parking right in front of the big red house with the wrap around porch. I slammed the door shut running up the big staircase, furiously knocking on the door. Next thing I knew I was bombarded by hugs from the entire family.
After catching up for a while we all decided to go to Sydney Harbour , so we jumped in the car. We had to drive into Sydney. Along the way we passed Swiss Chalet for dinner, and a few jokes told here and there. When we arrived the air was cool along the boardwalk, and you could smell the seafood from restaurants in town. Another image flashed into my mind, I remembered seeing a picture of me as a toddler, sitting in a stroller, eating a slushie, with my baseball cap on hair blowing in the wind, right on this boardwalk.
The sun started to set as we piled back into the car, my eyes felt heavy from a long day of traveling. I couldn’t wait to turn back into the driveway of the little blue house, with the chipping white porch, to run up the creaking stairs and curl up on the bed and just sleep.

Doctor Snooze by Jurnee Ware

Some people say sleeping is the one place you can escape from the hurt,
But I say it's where it hurts the most
Because right before your eyes are no longer useful, and all you hear is suddenly drowned out.
You think your deepest thoughts
About the one thing that makes you happiest.

But in fact, at that moment, that thing makes you the saddest.
It makes you think that another night is going to pass by without him lying next to you.
And as you sleep, you dream of what could be
What should be,
What you want it to be,
And when the world is yet again clear,
And the sun shines through your window.

A tear runs down your face,
Because you realize you're alone
Better yet, lonely,
Surrounded by so many people,
But wishing it was just him.

And the day his hand touches yours,
The day his eyes meet with yours,
And the day his lips sweep yours
Will be the day you can enjoy your sleep,
With his body next to yours.

But for now,
Sleep is just closure.
Sleep is your therapy.
Sleep won't hide your feelings
But embrace them.