My Cardboard Balcony

It's Ten O'Clock by Belinda Roddie It's ten o'clock, and I've never been great at going to bed at the time I should. I was hoping not to stay up so late, but my brain's like a live wire. It's not good, but it's expected. I have done a lot of writing and contemplating as well, making choices that require lots of thought and, of course, a personal dose of Hell. A storm is brewing in my hyper head; anxiety will always take a toll, not remedied by sleeping like I'm dead or doing something mindless, like a whole two hours of games or watching videos. Was this sonnet worth reading? Welp - who knows!

Rex worked his ass off to get to the finals, but he didn't even qualify for the semis. And as he threw his temper tantrum in the locker room later, I knew that there was no way I could comfort him. Rex had always been fast, but his stamina had always been garbage. He could sprint, but he couldn't keep the pace. He'd be left in the dust a mere one minute or so into the race, and he just couldn't handle knowing just how much more he had to work on.