Hidden Secret Me

I am a cold, flat, black and white rectangle, rounded corners, no frills or curls. No one could revere me more that thirteen-year-old higher thinking boys and girls, Illustrious readers of U.F.O.’s, the paranormals, and E.S.P. Ones who question their clari-normal selves, always seek out proof of life from me. The absolute best environment ambiance for my most effective use is set up gypsy-like, cushy, and cozy. Soft pillows, wavering candle making spooky shadows, smelling of lilac or equally wonderful well-loved posey. The room should be relatively unlit, but you have to see my alphabet and numbers. The hidden entities can make themselves known through whispers, or smells, not loudness or lumbers. My beige heart-window pointer messages are often disjointed or a hundred percent totally misread. Uh-oh. Here comes your mom. Everybody, move! Blow out the candle, and hide me quickly under the bed. I may be a big deal at your pre-teen’s life’s point, but in your neck of the woods, parents see me and go immediately red. I’m contraband, against their religion; except for Lazareth, they never want to know about the eager to be heard undead.