The clouds have dissipated,

They're nowhere to be found.

They've gone yonder the horizon,

Why didn't they take me along?

I long to be up in the air,

Among those misty bits.

To see everything for miles,

Nothing obscuring the view.

Because down here upon the ground,

I'm hindered by this fog inside my mind.

But does this obscurity,

Count as natures blessing,

If I created it myself?

You're like a nurse

You force feed me thoughts of you

On a spoon full of cough medicine

It tastes bitter but also

Slightly sweet

Where someone tried to lighten the taste

But instead of helping,

They made it obnoxious.

"Therapist?" Lords laughs as he waltzes into the office "what a waste of time." Throwing himself onto the couch. He knew the drill. "Look" Lords says to the ceiling "why don't I save both of us the headache of this bullshit and just hand me the script." There was a long pause. He would have thought he was alone if it wasn't for the incessant scribbling of pen onto paper. If this quack was waiting for him to look in his/her direction it wasn't happening. They could sit in silence the entire hour for all he cared.

Finally he heard her pompous voice "I don't think you realize how serious this matter is." She paused waiting for a response she wasn't going to get "You tried to kill yourself."

"Really?" Lords sits up quickly as if this was news to him "is that what I did? And here I thought I was here because of my pornography addiction." He raises his eyebrow as he pretended to masturbate.

"Well, if you feel that is one of the reasons."

"Reasons?" Lords interrupts "No there was no reason. Why is it always reasons with you people? What if" lords leans in closer "I was just bored." He stands up and begins pacing "or maybe I wanted to see what it would feel like to die."

"What do you think caused you to have these feelings?" She was trying to take back control he knew the game plan. He was making her nervous.

"I don't know." He whispered as he crouched onto the floor "perhaps it was withdrawal from drugs" he held up his hand making it shake "or the fact that my daddy beats me, and my mommy abandoned me, and my uncle gets me drunk and then touches me inappropriately" he whispers "and you want to know the worst part? Secretly I like it so it makes me feel all dirty inside." He smiled a sarcastic grin "is that what you want to hear?" As he pulls himself off the floor and walks to the window.

"If that is the truth."

"The truth?" He laughs silently at himself "The truth?" Then looks down at the floor "the truth is, I am a spoiled little rich kid with too much time on my hands. So I thought what the hell." He looks the therapist in the eyes for the first time "lets make those miserable fucks that call themselves my parents pay for all the HELL THEY PUT ME THROUGH." He tried to shake away the tears "They are just lucky I didn't try to kill them instead."

Longer works are an investment of time, creating a ribbon of thought to wrap the gift of reading it.

Shorter works are but a taste of a tale, leaving the rest of it to the imagination of the reader.

I love both of them, and I'll never completely say one is better than the other, since they are so different and satisfying.

Like an apple and a perfectly machined piece for an engine, they both hold a spot in my heart for their beauty and scent.