My Cardboard Balcony

We Rocked The House by Belinda Roddie We rocked the house last night when we played both sets, guitars screeching, bass pounding, and drums bellowing, squealing snares and booming tom- toms. The audience loved us, and after the show, they came in dozens just to have us sign their T-shirts, pictures, even arms and legs. One fan in particular said to me, "One day, I want to be just like you when I grow up - rocking up a storm." I smiled, and somehow, I almost believed I was worth something, yet after the high of performing had dwindled, I found that my mindset withered once I sat in front of my television, smoking a blunt.

How much merit can you measure from me, mister? Is it a teaspoon or a half cup, white like flour but grainy like sugar? If I cheat on a test once a year, does that make the exams I don't tinker at worth anything still? Or is that occasional lapse of judgment and morality doom me in the end? You don't think I wrote this essay, but I did. I could never copy something like this. The carbon monoxide in my father's lungs was real. The hope is not.