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This is my last journal.
I'm not begging you to add me.
It's public, still add me.
I'll add you all back.
Things are different now.
There's no denying it.
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Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines, he wrote a poem, and he called it Chops, because that was the name of his dog, and that's what it was all about, and his teacher gave him an A, and a gold star, and his mother hung it on the kitchen door, and read it to his aunts. That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo, and he ( Read more... )
