Sunday Morning

Certain things are never shared. Never said, never shown. Revealed. Unveiled.

Certain things are only ever said in writing.

Sometimes it's the only accurate way to portray something.

Other times it's the only way you feel somebody's listening to you.

I feel that way a lot.

That's why I blog.

But I can count on my left hand how many regular readers I have.

But there's something nice in being able to say whatever I want to say.

Like the fact that I look like I just woke up,

And I spent maybe four hours of my life trying to do AP US homework.

Keyword: Trying.

I didn't get much done.

I edited my essay,

Did a primary source and a paper with the dates on them.

I got near nothing done.

I cried I was so frustrated.

Old English is hard to read when you feel sick and lonely.

(It's hard to read all of the time actually...)

I finished Mockingjay though.

And it made me sad.

And more lonely-feeling and confused.

I feel sick.

And I can't bear going to school tomorrow.

When really, the order and structure is just what I need.

But I don't know how I'll hold up.

We'll see.

Here.

A poem I wrote.

What The Midwest Meant.

Shimmering little tassets

In the harvest lands

Where amber waves

Are real, a reality of bounty.

Of what the midwest means.

The stalks that twist and bend with the

Now chilling breezes of the oncoming

Autumn.

Of the leaves turning.

And the stalks dying.

The golden harvest

Turning dull,

Husks dried out and paper-thin,

The kernels once full to bursting,

With what the midwest means.

Now crinkled and bowing

With what was once bounty.

The midwest now means nothing.

And the snowy cold will settle down

Blanket all in sleep.

And the stalks are dormant.

With what the midwest meant.