If I Could Pick Up the Pen and Put the Mic Down
It can't be hot, this is ridiculous. It's more than a feet of snow build up outside and our heat is not working, for some reason. And we have this sorry excuse of an electric fireplace (apartment living). Why am I so hot. Then cold, then hot again. Am I going through some changes. Geez.
Friday night, the family went out bowling. I got two strikes and a gazillion gutter balls. But even with the gutter balls, I was on fire. My release was spot on.
It's the first time I've been out out without my mom. My goodness, I still can't believe she's gone. I can't think too much about it. Just like I can't look at the phone album, or go in her closet and things like that. It's really a shock. You think you'll have someone forever and then they're gone.
That's the life cycle isn't it; we live, we die. But what will we do with the dash in between the years. I haven't quite done much. Or so society tells me...
I thought I was a poet, until I heard my cousin recite a poem for my mom at the funeral. It was so beautiful. It put me to shame. I thought I was a writer, but I haven't picked up a pen to write anything in so long. How can I want to be something if every chance I get I don't. Where's the passion, Lovely?
Oh gosh, I'll finish this post tommorow I guess, I'm nodding at the keyboard. It's 8:49 am what on earth am I still doing up? I need to get to bed immediately.
Okay, that's enough.
Friday night, the family went out bowling. I got two strikes and a gazillion gutter balls. But even with the gutter balls, I was on fire. My release was spot on.
It's the first time I've been out out without my mom. My goodness, I still can't believe she's gone. I can't think too much about it. Just like I can't look at the phone album, or go in her closet and things like that. It's really a shock. You think you'll have someone forever and then they're gone.
That's the life cycle isn't it; we live, we die. But what will we do with the dash in between the years. I haven't quite done much. Or so society tells me...
I thought I was a poet, until I heard my cousin recite a poem for my mom at the funeral. It was so beautiful. It put me to shame. I thought I was a writer, but I haven't picked up a pen to write anything in so long. How can I want to be something if every chance I get I don't. Where's the passion, Lovely?
Oh gosh, I'll finish this post tommorow I guess, I'm nodding at the keyboard. It's 8:49 am what on earth am I still doing up? I need to get to bed immediately.
Okay, that's enough.