Katie was eating.
Again. Lately by this time of night Katie had been home from work for 3 or 4
hours and there was rarely a moment when she wasn’t munching on something. Anything,
really. One night she boiled half a dozen eggs and ate just the whites. Tonight
it was just a box of Shapes, the new ones with the fancy flavours. Not that it
mattered.
Lacey stroked her hair
as she walked past the kitchen table, strewn with papers and boxes and a
mid-sized pile of dirty plates stacked neatly in front of Katie’s laptop. She
had watched Katie tonight as she moved restlessly in and out of the kitchen.
Even the quick flicking through links as she surfed Facebook. Lacey was recognizing
something.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Friday, October 07, 2011
This is to be Read Aloud:
you've heard that you're gifted
but does that mean you're lifted?
high above mountains, you've drifted
far beyond what man has sifted through
and torn into pieces,
leaving only remains.
remains of a world once glorious and lovely,
and then to express his love, he
reached out to touch but found
bitter.
cold.
tears.
feeling only fears, she shuffled
quickly and quietly to avoid any ruffled
feathers and unhappy demeanour.
perhaps you have seen her?
she cries on street corners and cold stairs, in parking lots
wrapped in sheets torn, her bald pair of shoes that not
only hurt her but no longer protect her. a metaphor.
to continue trying without succeeding is a fool's game
but did anyone ever tell you that to try is to aim?
even higher than those around you can ever claim
to reach, to work for the acclaim
and then to see the results, to reap the rewards of work well done
and have some fun,
to be like one of those creatives types
who write
and wear what they want to,
have tattoos and say what they want to,
but after this, the conclusion i must come to
is this:
that to write and sing and dance and dream,
i must, first, sleep.
but does that mean you're lifted?
high above mountains, you've drifted
far beyond what man has sifted through
and torn into pieces,
leaving only remains.
remains of a world once glorious and lovely,
and then to express his love, he
reached out to touch but found
bitter.
cold.
tears.
feeling only fears, she shuffled
quickly and quietly to avoid any ruffled
feathers and unhappy demeanour.
perhaps you have seen her?
she cries on street corners and cold stairs, in parking lots
wrapped in sheets torn, her bald pair of shoes that not
only hurt her but no longer protect her. a metaphor.
to continue trying without succeeding is a fool's game
but did anyone ever tell you that to try is to aim?
even higher than those around you can ever claim
to reach, to work for the acclaim
and then to see the results, to reap the rewards of work well done
and have some fun,
to be like one of those creatives types
who write
and wear what they want to,
have tattoos and say what they want to,
but after this, the conclusion i must come to
is this:
that to write and sing and dance and dream,
i must, first, sleep.
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