{I} cannot, could not, {L}ive a hundred lives {O}r dream a million dreams that would bring me one day to you. #life likes to {V}eer me in the wrong direction, so {E}ither you brought me here through birth or the moment I met {Y}ou, I started living. {O}n {U}ntil the future, I can't possibly watch it wither like it was supposed to.

Competition~! Competition, Here today, Absolutely no admission. Only one condition: Write about a superstition, Or about a kind of, maybe real magician ( Not to be confused with musician ). I'd like it in by Monday - Pronto for submission. Just remember, Please to tag it: #SuperstitionCompetition In full completion.

A Writer Is Like A . . . A writer is like a carpenter, His story, like a block of wood. A writer is an artist, Her story; a painting. A poet is like a dancer, Her #poem, like a dance. A poet is a singer, His #poem; a lullaby. A writer is like an aristo, His words; wealth. A writer is a programmer, Her words; lines of code. An author is like a mother, Her books; children. An author is a creator, Her books, her inventions.

Alice In Underland Wander and walk, Take Alice over the top. Don’t ever look behind you, Don’t ever stop. For the Land of Wonder, Has changed - Gone down, far under. All the magic, Has sunken down, In a plunder. It’s become worse than lame, Not even the littlest bit insane. But instead, As we’ve seen it, It’s almost nearly dead. Wonderland becomes something, A tad bit too quiet. The White Rabbit’s search, Will send your stomach a lurch. The Mad Hatter’s hats, Will never quite be the same, We’ll leave it at that... Yes, Wonderland has plunged, To such a state of the matter. It seems that before, We were mistaken - The truth has us shaken, But it seems, Wonderland has been truly been forsaken. The Cheshire’s smile, As sinister as its always been, But that was just his style, We thought for awhile... Take Alice far off, To a place where she can wander, Just a little longer. For we think Wonderland, Has gone ill. How it brings us a chill, This sickness of the mind. Take Alice somewhere safe, Out of harm’s way. Just whatever you do, Don’t let her see Wonderland, As it falls to decay.

The Vision Well You there, Peek down this well. What do you see? What do you smell? Hush, don’t tell. You’ll ruin it, Mademoiselle. What is it, You ask? I’ll tell you, Very well. This, Little Miss, Is the Wishing Well. The Vision Well. A small chasm, Like an abyss. And oh my! When it comes dry, You’ll have to drop by, And help us make, Another well, Anew. Now then, What does it do, You ask? This, Little Miss, Is the place where secrets, Are set to brew. Where nightmares, Are poured in a sprue. Where dreams are sewn, And put together, Like glue. And snap! Just like that, Right out of the blue, To you. That, Little Miss, Is what this abyss, Will do.