The other day someone asked me if I'd written anything lately. And it hit me. I've not even had the urge to write anything. The reason I find this somewhat ironic is because I write for release, I write when I'm so happy I can't contain it, or I'm so down I can't contain it. I've not been either. If I had to color my mood, I'd go for a nice neutral brown. Sadly enough, the obvious joke will go unsaid. That having been said, its time I wrote, something, anything, just to say I've been writing.


Oceans crash in her eyes,
When I look through, I die,
And if I believe in her, if I put her beyond my dreams,
We could have a life bursting at the seams,
live far beyond our means.
Eat soup from kitchens and not cans,
Forever has never been part of my plans.
But now I suppose you want nothing less,
So maybe we'll move, actually, lets.
Lets move far away from this place,
to where you're the only pretty face.
And where I'm the only one who makes you sigh.
I'll go to work every morning waving goodbye.
There'll be a grocery store
with packages of happiness and contentment,
who could ask for more?
The mechanic's shop will not exist,
because our cars will fail and we won't care,
we'll walk two blocks to get to everywhere,
and three to get the kids from school.
The freezer will keep things hot,
the stove will make things cool,
The world will reverse just for us,
And when everyone wants to know what's the fuss,
maybe we'll just fade away again.

My mood?

Hmm. . . feels a bit forced doesn't it?