Sorrow.

Lost a cousin to alcoholism the kid was 18 and had his whole life going for him. I am grieving that. I am also grieving the fact that I never had a childhood. I am ready to grow up but it's really painful. Sometimes it doesn't rain but it pours. The truth is I would love to have a wife and perhaps some kids but I can't lead kids to adulthood if I haven't gone their myself.

I suppose if I was a musician I would write a song about it. You will be missed Max. Good bye cousin I'm sorry I never got to know you. May I add in this dark time some of my friends have been so supportive. In the tough times you find out who your friends are I think. I think though this isn't always a good way to judge our friends are falable. Haven't we failed our friends in some ways?

The Day My Dog Smoked a Pipe

The day my dog smoked a pipe

Was dark and dreary,

His eyes, however,

Were bright and cheery,

Like a Hawk on a wire

over looking the newspaper,

My wife served him a plate of bacon,

He said not a word,

But sniffed,

and munched thoughtfully.

Afterward this skillfully lighting my pipe

He began puffing and turning the pages

first the daily news, then the sports section.

I slapped the paper in defiance,

He simply humphed, puffed and turned the pages.

My wife shewed me away.

And I incensed jumped upon

The Mantle piece curling my tail

around my hinds.

Bush Tits

Flipping, gripping,

Fluttering,

Stripping

Branch

By branch.

Sorry for my lapse in writing, if you aren't reading his I understand why, however, if you are flipping through, I thought I would share one of my poems with you.
It's taken from "The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Mim the Dwarf
( A song of Mim, petty dwarf betrayer of Turin Turumbal,
The First Age of Middle-Earth by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Stalward figure with a face of stone stood, Mim last of his house,

Not likened was his kind to the Thanes of old,

Though these were the days of their flowery youth,

Amon Rudh was the house of Mim,

A hill of bare and rocky stone,

Crowned by the Red flowering Sargon,

At its feet stank a large black bog.

Hidden in the eves of subtle stone were

the secrets of the Petty Kings of old,

All now gone and lost but a memory of

but the memory of smithed metal and chiseled stone.

In the halls of Mim dwelt the outlaws of Turin, there

the keen eyes of Mim led Turin

The muffled gloom of Bar-en-Dunwedh beset Turin's men,

Yet behold! In the muffled silence of snow a new figure came,

Beleg Cuthalion, elf friend of Turin. His light was a lesser light

Of the Eldar,

Yet he was a cool spring in the midst of a biting winter.

And so, the frozen hearts of the Outlaws melted in the light of the Eldar,

Mim's teeth set on edge,

His eyes cool and keen at the sight of Cuthalion,

Seasons passed, the snow cap melt,

Murmured were the weeping words of Mim at the edge of the wood,

His son in the iron grasp of the black skinned orc.

Silent slept the Outlaws watch, safe from the enemies eyes,

Dreams of the promise of spring, hope ever warmed their hearts.

Then netted as a bird, and skeward like a pig, the Outlaws were silenced,

Turin himself was dragged north, helpless in the black hands of Thangorodrim.

Mim entered his silent house to the sound of a bow sting

and a biting shaft.

With a shout he fell, a trail of blood to tell the tale.

Beleg limped slowly forth.