Would we wreak worrisome words when we would win wonderfully with well worked worlds wrought with wonders which were well-written? Were we wittingly writing wonders which we're wishing would win wonderful wealth with words? What wrongful writing would we work with winnings well won? Where would we willfully write words which would wash with wellsprings worth writing? Who would write words well-written with watchful wondrous written wanderings? When would we write words which when written work whispers where we were without words? What would we willingly wage war with when we would write wonderfilled words which work within wanderlust?

I'm sorry that I'm fucked up

But you said you're fucked up too

And there's no one I'd rather be fucked up with than you

I liked the way you smiled

And the way your voice behaved

And I like the way your eyes sparkled in the day

I'm glad that I met you

And glad that you met me

I'm looking forward, to what the future could be

That kiss was something special

Underneath the midnight sky

I said screw the cameras as the fireworks began to fly. 

I pretended not to care

That you had moved on and I

Was stuck standing in this rut

This rut that we used to call a life together

You promised forever

Yet all I can see now is the empty boxes 

Stacked against the corner and the full ones

Full of your things and not mine

Never mind that we had a thousand memories

That you bagged and tossed in the trash

The shirts from our play and the ties from our dance

Tossed like a candy wrapper

Forget about the fact that I gave a year of myself 

Time that I thought was well spent, but well....

Yes! The one memory that was untarnished yet

The picture of our first date

As I clutched that silver lining to my chest

I smiled a little and decided if you could throw our life away,

Well I could laugh the pain away

Too bad it doesn't really work that way does it?

Noun

(1)

Of or relating to the country Brobdignag in the tale Gulliver's Travels By Oliver Twist

(2)

The act of being huge, Gigantic, or In Trumpian.....Yuge

(I'm sorry... I didn't look it up.... I just 

Ike the book...)

I am not a skeleton, I do not carry a bloody scythe. I do not enjoy my job, and I must certainly do not take your life. You have God to blame for that last part. He gave you such fragile bodies that burn from the very element necessary for your survival. He cursed you from the very moment your ancestors ate from that tree.

What I do is kinder. I soften the blow. I ease the pain and bring you to acceptance. I whisk your souls away to a better tomorrow and He decides from there. I cry at every passing. My heart breaks at every eulogy. I would  let you live a hundred life's if I could. I am sadly forbidden from that. I have fallen in love with life, and wish I did not have to bear the part of transferring your soul.

I have to go. Miss Parkins from Sydney is ready, and I have to soothe the ache of the cancer that God gave her. I must leave, but please... never fear me.

It takes skill to pull of a murder, but even more to pull off a suicide. Everyone knows that with murder you have to take steps to ensure you don't get caught. With suicide, you have to make sure you don't get found. Your first step is to have a plan. Second is to say your goodbyes in a way that doesn't raise alarm. The final one is to go somewhere no one will ever find you and succeed. Congratulations, you got away with suicide. Don't ever leave a note.