Writing

Anger. 

Anger is a thing I am not proud of.

Yet it happens, where I cannot control what I say or do.

The day is soft and silent.

 Except for the quiet chirp of the crickets,

 and the lonely breeze. 

The pond has no animals to swim in its glory.

Loud and noisy

the 8th grade jury had taken over the partially empty classroom

with nothing to do

no work

(it was the second day after Thanksgiving break)

playing cards dancing through the air

Walking to the path unknown 
I hold unto the universe I knew 
But eventually I knew soon I have to let go 
For every weight in my hand has to fly away

Tears

for this show

for this character I love more than

any

             freaking

Over and over the ride awaits

A carriage good and sound

A go, to go, forego, we go

and now the round spins!--

tilts on it's axis no more or,

freeform expression a painting perhaps