My
journal is quickly filling up with unused pieces/parts--waiting to become poetry. The scribbles of my soul are being held down but hopefully not for long. Whoever stole my creativity, I want it back.
Some lines from my journal, connect the dots where you will:
What's the point of all this living? Why don't we go home?
Education like intention means nothing without direction.
My religion is called Wishy Washy.
I lost my dream today.
Let me wallow in it.
Your identity is not your job. (Yes, it is.)
Need air to breathe.
As red as a rose is the color of blood.
Turned away from the Pearly Gates.
Can't find myself in an information age.
I put my hope in the wrong people but God just wasn't there.
I miss my Daddy.
I need you to tell me, "I'm all right" and that "I'm doing a good job." At least say, "Everything's going to be all right."
You've met my Angel.
Let's fall away.
Now it's your name. Now it's your choice.
It will be interesting to see how these lines and literally the hundreds of others that I'm looking at in my Journal will come together when the time is right. And maybe that is all I need to create again, a little more time and a little more pain.
-posted by Nobius 9:13 AM 