Debuts are Overrated

For anyone unaware of who I am, as much as many claim they do, let me introduce myself. I'm Stormy Gayle Henry. I tell everyone my first name is StormyGayle because that's the way it's pronounced, not the way it's spelt. Most call me Stormy although I prefer StormyGayle. I'll always look young but be old in the heart. My forever wish is world peace. My favorite scent is a worldly man. All you'd ever need to know is ''I like you'' and everyone and everyone. I couldn't love myself more than I already do. I have no regrets on anything I've every been lucky enough to experience. I care for too many, too much. Trusting too much is impossible. Sometimes I feel like a free spirit and it's exhilarating. I already love everything and everyone, because we all should. My sense of intuition surprises me at times. ''Happy Birthday'' is what I would say to everyone on every birthday if I had one wish and world peace were not an option. I tend to have the occasional ''grammatical errors'' but I still think of myself as highly educated. If I could find it possible I would see that everyone were comfortable for generations upon generations. Being family to me is not the same as being blood. Helping others when they don't want to help themselves embarrasses me. I love life but I still wake up grumpy. If I never heard a train again it would be too soon. I want to give. In introducing myself, I realize that the only thing I truly find impossible is trying to introduce myself. First impressions mean so much and sometimes everything. So how can I sum myself up a matter of 15 seconds? Never could I sit down with every individual I'll ever meet and tell them my life story. But someday I may try. Buenos noches my lil chicken stalkers, till I feed you another time.

With Love

In the fathermost ends of  my nerves,  I felt the most electrifying current of heat, sparks and passions. Churning until, with no signs of forthcoming, it pulses through my veins like a runaway freight train. Ecstasy rivettes throughout my temple of misted floral skin and clouds the brain that floats atop the stormy sea of endorphins. Bliss is the description of ecstasy or seventh heaven. Love is the inception of ecstasy which cannot be faked but merely manipulated. Honest women make old maids, but I'd rather be a lonely old maid than subsided with contentment. My love will never be vapid or mundane. I would perish if my love were to be represented by the atrocious descriptions of anything less than freehanded. Whoever is to experience my love will be sure to weep in confusion. My lover will know not I had been possible. If I were not your moon, your gravity, your reason, than I am nothing more than the jester for your royal occassion. Give me someone to overwhelm in my love and to feed with my essence and I will give them the most cherished memories, the most tender of kisses and the sweetest laughs. For everytime I'd write, rather it be a shopping list, reminder, or a simple signature, it will always be a love letter to you. You would always be on my mind and I'd always think of you with Love.

Buenos Niches my little chickens, till I feed you another day.

Dead Ends or Unfinished Creations

In my present moment I walk down a hallway. A hallway that has no visual end. High, strong, brick walls stand parallel to one another as they shepherd me to follow the direction the sidewalk governs. In doing so the walls deepen and feel as if they are grappling. Panic. If I can't find a way out soon then this hallway will soon be nothing more than a solitary wall preserving the very life of me for no one to find. I become hysterical as I rush, fighting the elapsing time to what I feel may be the end of all hope. Doors I find are tall and made of steel with an iron lock seal. As I approach each one I lose belief that I'll see another day. The walls of rustic brick move closer in to its twin, as if yearning to become part of one another. Alarmed, I run. I just want to get as far from the entrapment that I dread will be my dead end. All is dark. I feel the raw, coarse brick scraping the outside of my shoulders. I cannot run anymore. I incline my back perpendicular to one wall, awaiting the other to kiss my face with its rough and unyielding torture of macerating death. Just as I feel the frigid temperature pulsating off the rocky exterior of each significant brick, I faint.

Good night my little chickens, till I feed you another day.