· Sep 17, 2015 at 11:43 am
I still haven’t found my groove on tcrbang.com.
I don’t like the layout. And then I can’t get my head-in-the-game as far as posting and commenting goes.
· Sep 16, 2015 at 11:20 am
So Maggie wrote this poem last night using words from her spelling list. She turned 10 last July.
I cannot groan,
Or my voice will turn faint.
The ghost of my past,
Shows me visions of playing,
On the coast of Spain.
My past is burnt.
My past is a mixture of darkness and sorrow.
Flaming arrows fly through the air.
I remember bowling with my father,
Preparing a feast with my mother,
The appeal of praise
Running through the wheat field
Running so fast I could not hear anything,
Not even speech.
Now I crease the picture,
The only memory,
Of my past.
She’s going to surpass me in pretty much everything.
· Sep 15, 2015 at 2:41 pm
I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.