My Cardboard Balcony

I've realized just how hard I am on myself for making mistakes. Not when it comes to writing, mind you, because I consider every mistake part of a draft. Basically, when you're a writer, you're encouraged to fail the first time or even the first couple of times. Because failure spawns creativity and allows your ideas and stories and characters to better develop. Same goes with music composition and performance, which I also do: Not so much of a crime if I goof on a note or don't write the best song in the world. I'm hard on myself when it comes to people. Tonight, as I was writing this entry...I got into a particularly bad argument with one of my friends. Over semantics, no less. One of his biggest pet peeves. I thought I was being valiant and proper, when really, I was being silly and immature. I was someone who had practically no friends as a kid, so I've built this complex that should I ever make a friend angry or feel like he or she just doesn't want...

Turning Point Poem: "Life and Hell" by Belinda Roddie Firebirds swoop down When fist are raised and Collide with blood spilt From vast depths Hands crafted into Swords, spears, Teeth misshapen by Curses. And the shadows of Hell Take advantage and Consume voraciously the deaths Of falsehood Vilification Difference Afraid Of mothers beating children Surprises up one's sleeve And taken out and used to Create a decadent place. Just like Hell. Underestimating life Playing with it like a toy When it can turn on us Guns Pointed to the head, Knives Jabbing at the Throat, Paws and fire Clawing out of shirts and Burning our insides. Was it all to create a Utopia? Then we have failed miserably. Life for the innocent has become Hell. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 2004.

Caught reading at work and I shuffled off feeling a mite embarrassed. Not that it mattered in the long scheme. I could still play the newbie card for another week, or maybe the rest of the month. After a while, though, I'd grow out of the ownership phase. Oh, well. I was learning. And I had a wicked inclination for Hefeweizen.

When Grandpa Worked In Vineyards by Belinda Roddie When Grandpa worked in vineyards, I wanted to work beside him in the scenery and in the cellars, clipped red hair, a brown pressed tunic to complement greenery. The wine my grandpa made was sweet and I enjoyed each sip even when I was young. Beer never suited me, nor bourbon, so I let light flavors dance atop my tongue. Then Grandpa died, and he gave my brother and me the vineyards to do as we pleased, and while my brother worked out in the fields, he thought the fancy job belonged to me. But every so often, I'll go and toil in muddy jeans upon my grandpa's soil.

"I don't know how to play solitaire." Francis watched the cards dance in his mother's hands. They were wrinkled far beyond her actual age. He wondered if they were actually wrinkles. "Well, I'll teach you." He looked up into her watering eyes. She was so focused on the deck, her lips pursed and thin. True passion for something so simple. Within her worn out face, Francis saw warmth.

Paper Clip by Belinda Roddie made a paper clip mustache and glued it to my face so I looked like a dapper robot gentleman metalman then I bent it around and made ant antennae or TV antennae gonna see if I get satellite calls from Soviet enthusiasts then I molded bunny ears or maybe a beak or maybe a pair of wings I stuck to my fingers so I could fly far, far away and then I

He had a jar of fairy hearts on my desk. They buzzed with a marvelously bubbly music. He listened to the sound and smiled as his ears noticeably tingled from the vibrations. He hadn't taken the fairy hearts by force. He had found them, left with a little red card, telling him to take good care of them until the fairies came back for them.