Less Yesterday and More Today

One month... that's all that's left until I'm once again free for another inevitably incredible summer. Don't get me wrong. I love school, but I live for the summer. And that's so nice... because it hasn't been like that since grade school.

Lately, I have been deciding what classes to take next semester, which is a nightmare and super exciting at the same time. I'll update you, when I actually figure it out though and not bother you with speculation.

I've finally got back to the incandescent place that I'm so fond of. You know the one. It's been a while. And if I said I was there, I was lying... I do that sometime. It's more a way for me to try to convince myself by trying to convince others. Pretty tricky, right? I'm good like that.

This blog has become proof to myself that I am not nearly as good of a creative writer than I may have once thought. At least not about myself. Because when I write about myself I write about what I feel, cause that's more real to me. You know? I'll just stick to my mediocre poetry. :-)

Here's a poem that I started writing that I really life. It's not finished. Heck, it's hardly even started. And it doesn't have a title... deal.

Eleven is a number that means nothing.
It stands alone on the road leading home.
Carrying a box leaking memories.
I left it there when I was young.

And now a grizzled man lies on the corner
with his fingers on his hands
and his teeth in his mouth
and everything is just as it seems
only smaller.

Yep, that's all I have right now. Sorry.... Till I finish I guess I'll just continue to be the moralist on the mountain top and the cap gun cowboy caught playing dress up.