♔ ♕ ♖ ♗ ♘ ♙
ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｅ ｈｅｒｏ
ｉｓ ｆｌａｗｅｄ.
↓
ｈｅ ｉｓ ｏｖｅｒ
ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｈｉｓ
ｏｗｎ ｈａｎｄ ｍａｄｅ
ｏｂｓｔａｃｌｅｓ.
♙ ♘ ♗ ♖ ♕ ♔
ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｅ ｈｅｒｏ
ｉｓ ｆｌａｗｅｄ.
↓
ｈｅ ｉｓ ｏｖｅｒ
ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｈｉｓ
ｏｗｎ ｈａｎｄ ｍａｄｅ
ｏｂｓｔａｃｌｅｓ.
♙ ♘ ♗ ♖ ♕ ♔
ｔｈｅｒｅ ｉｓ ａ ｈｏｕｓｅ ｉｎ
ｎｅｗ ｏｒｌｅａｎｓ,ｔｈｅｙ ｃａｌｌ
ｔｈｅ ｒｉｓｉｎｇ ｓｕｎ.
ｎｅｗ ｏｒｌｅａｎｓ,ｔｈｅｙ ｃａｌｌ
ｔｈｅ ｒｉｓｉｎｇ ｓｕｎ.
ａｎｄ ｉｔ'ｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｔｈｅ ｒｕｉｎ
ｏｆ ｍａｎｙａ ｐｏｏｒ ｇｉｒｌ ａｎｄ
ｇｏｄ, ｉ ｋｎｏｗ ｉ'ｍ ｏｎｅ.
ｏｆ ｍａｎｙａ ｐｏｏｒ ｇｉｒｌ ａｎｄ
ｇｏｄ, ｉ ｋｎｏｗ ｉ'ｍ ｏｎｅ.
ｍｙ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ ｗａｓ ａ
ｔａｉｌｏｒ. ｓｈｅ ｓｅｗｅｄ ｍｙ
ｎｅｗ ｂｌｕｅ ｊｅａｎｓ.
ｔａｉｌｏｒ. ｓｈｅ ｓｅｗｅｄ ｍｙ
ｎｅｗ ｂｌｕｅ ｊｅａｎｓ.
ｍｙ ｆａｔｈｅｒ ｗａｓ ａ ｇａｍｂｌｉｎ'
ｍａｎ,ｄｏｗｎ ｉｎ
ｎｅｗ ｏｒｌｅａｎｓ.
ｍａｎ,ｄｏｗｎ ｉｎ
ｎｅｗ ｏｒｌｅａｎｓ.
ｏｈ， ｍｏｔｈｅｒ, ｔｅｌｌ ｙｏｕｒ
ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ ｎｏｔ ｔｏ ｄｏ
ｗｈａｔ ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｄｏｎｅ.
ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ ｎｏｔ ｔｏ ｄｏ
ｗｈａｔ ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｄｏｎｅ.
ｓｐｅｎｄ ｙｏｕｒ ｌｉｖｅｓ ｉｎ ｓｉｎ
ａｎｄ ｍｉｓｅｒｙ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｈｏｕｓｅ
ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｒｉｓｉｎｇ ｓｕｎ.
ａｎｄ ｍｉｓｅｒｙ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｈｏｕｓｅ
ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｒｉｓｉｎｇ ｓｕｎ.
-----
"it's not real is it?" i've known her since she was a little girl being held in her mother's arms. i
was six when i first met her, herself a meer newborn. we werent bonded through blood, not
the least bit. her mother's best friend was my father and my father's best friend was her
mother. it was almost destiny that we'd become best friends as well. i'd wailed for hours on
end before they'd finally let me hold her that dewfrosted february morning. i'd been in
kindergarden no more than a week or so, but it was long enough to know my days of the week
and dates. february 2nd, 1995. the day after valentines day. i didnt know the time exactly;
ms. wilson had yet to teach us that yet.
i had been told i couldn't hold her until i had support of my own. that meant sitting on the
couch, pillows apon pillows helping me to prop up her head and hold her weight. i didnt
know better. i didnt know that a infant's instant reaction when something is placed in their palm
is to hold it, so i went crazy when her little fingers curled around mine. i thought that was her
way of telling me she accepted me. all i really remember after that is me giggling uncontrollably
and my father taking her from my arms so i wouldnt drop her while laughing, only to have her
sneeze right into his face.
she was the one who told me santa clause wasnt real. it wasnt really a spoiler, she told me when
she was three and i was eight. let me tell you, her mind was brilliant. she discovered things that
i would never even have thought of. she didnt need to learn how to read or write, so i thought
because her mother disagreed. she didnt have to see stories on a page, she made up her own
that i believed were better than the ones my teacher read to me in class. so much younger
than me, she was, but she still had the ability to speak with such fluency that i was a victim of
jealousy. her stories were like cowboys' lassos looping around my neck and pulling me in tightly. i
was addicted to all things she.
of the stories she'd make up, we'd act them out all over her house or mine, wherever wewerebein
watched at. or even if it were just a simple movie, we'd play the parts. our favorite was the
inspector gadget movies. we'd use blankets and pillows to make a fort around the coffee
table. we used forks and spoons as our 'gadgets', no knives because it was a ''safety hazard" so her
mother said.
"it's not real is it?" i've known her since she was a little girl being held in her mother's arms. i
was six when i first met her, herself a meer newborn. we werent bonded through blood, not
the least bit. her mother's best friend was my father and my father's best friend was her
mother. it was almost destiny that we'd become best friends as well. i'd wailed for hours on
end before they'd finally let me hold her that dewfrosted february morning. i'd been in
kindergarden no more than a week or so, but it was long enough to know my days of the week
and dates. february 2nd, 1995. the day after valentines day. i didnt know the time exactly;
ms. wilson had yet to teach us that yet.
i had been told i couldn't hold her until i had support of my own. that meant sitting on the
couch, pillows apon pillows helping me to prop up her head and hold her weight. i didnt
know better. i didnt know that a infant's instant reaction when something is placed in their palm
is to hold it, so i went crazy when her little fingers curled around mine. i thought that was her
way of telling me she accepted me. all i really remember after that is me giggling uncontrollably
and my father taking her from my arms so i wouldnt drop her while laughing, only to have her
sneeze right into his face.
she was the one who told me santa clause wasnt real. it wasnt really a spoiler, she told me when
she was three and i was eight. let me tell you, her mind was brilliant. she discovered things that
i would never even have thought of. she didnt need to learn how to read or write, so i thought
because her mother disagreed. she didnt have to see stories on a page, she made up her own
that i believed were better than the ones my teacher read to me in class. so much younger
than me, she was, but she still had the ability to speak with such fluency that i was a victim of
jealousy. her stories were like cowboys' lassos looping around my neck and pulling me in tightly. i
was addicted to all things she.
of the stories she'd make up, we'd act them out all over her house or mine, wherever wewerebein
watched at. or even if it were just a simple movie, we'd play the parts. our favorite was the
inspector gadget movies. we'd use blankets and pillows to make a fort around the coffee
table. we used forks and spoons as our 'gadgets', no knives because it was a ''safety hazard" so her
mother said.
