My Cardboard Balcony

So lately, besides my blog, I've been attempting to either begin or revive small to medium-sized writing projects. This has proven to be exceedingly difficult, considering my energy level after finishing a day at work, and I sometimes even put off my OneWord and Poet Corner entries to ceaselessly play Tetris online and watch Youtube videos until my shoulders seize up and my back starts hurting. I'm going to have such a hard time walking by the time I turn sixty. Besides little worries backing up in my mind, like my struggle to lose weight and stop eating so much damn chocolate, and my little concerns with how well I'm doing my job at the school I work at, I've simply been sort of unmotivated. Of course, with every passing day, I come up with comedic ideas, dramatic ideas, all sorts of ideas - they just never really make it onto a paper or a screen. I haven't written a song in months, episode ten of my TV show is only partially written, and overall, it's been

Beside the Parlor by Belinda Roddie I never liked this room beside the parlor, This tiny, insignificant space, all grays and yellows, Always stinking of garlic for reasons I do not know – There is nothing special in this room, only a table with Coffee rings instead of coffee cups, a chair meant for Leaning against, not sitting – the springs would serve as rough Against a person – and a portrait of a Frenchman Who is no Napoleon, no King Louis, just a man of Thinning mustache and little worth, save for his smile, Painted without the flash of teeth but with the Implication of some knowledge hidden away from Common people, people who tend to overlook the fellow’s Eyes that seem to pierce the flesh itself – Perhaps I’ll stay in here a little longer. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since November 24th, 2008.

Atop the cliffs of Moher, I saw the sea spray floating across the jagged rocks, inviting me to jump and become the foam. The foam of a tankard that I had drunk from far too many times before. The suds of a bathtub where my father had lain in before his head lolled back and life seeped from him, starting with his failing heart. I did not think about the woman who had brought me here, who now took pictures of the view.