Struggling to write today
Which makes no sense.
It’s a gray, rainy day,
Temperature is ten degrees lower than yesterday,
There are puddles in parking lots and on sidewalks.
It’s a day for worms, not people, to thrive.
The perfect kind of day for sad thoughts
The perfect kind of day for writing.
A friend needs a hug.
Two deaths - a cousin and a classmate,
Sadden her,
And maybe they remind her of her mortality.
Anti-Semitic violence and another shooting,
Sadden her, me, and hopefully everyone with a conscience,
And should remind us
that violence based on religion or hate
never ends well for civilization.
Morbid thoughts on a gray day.
I should be celebrating that writing came
From sadness.
Instead I’m mourning the loss,
Once again,
Of innocence.
I fall into the rhythm and comfort
of writing
because writing is easier than speaking.
It’s a safe place for me to express emotions,
Reflect on trials and tribulations,
Examine my soul,
And wallow.
Lamenting, alone with my heart,
Until a ray of sunshine
Jolts me back to reality.
I’m alive
And every day offers me something of value
Whether I see it right away or not.
Sometimes struggling,
Sometimes singing,
Sometimes loving,
Always living.
