[no subject]

I’m working on re-discovering my grace with words.

A self-proclaimed writer, I pride myself on the words dancing off my fingertips. Only now that my words have found themselves off beat and dancing on the wrong foot, I’m not quick to tell the tales I have to tell.

My love for my own verbal offspring is completely conditional and I can openly admit that.

Something here is obviously dysfunctional and not good for the family environment I’m trying to mimic. This renders every thought I have mutated and socially unacceptable. As the motherly figure in this horrible metaphor, I’m slowly being reduced to tears as I slide a leather skirt over my razor burned thighs and walk the literary streets of shame.

I’m doing everything I can for this family, but I just need a little bit more compassion and compliance from these god forsaken children who just don’t seem to understand the trouble I go through every night. Slaving over the key board as though it’s a burning stove, I’m sweating and trying to cool these third degree burns without wincing. I’m strong, I keep telling myself but I know it’s only a matter of time before I get so fed up I take a drive out to the ravine and take care of things the old fashioned way.