...Take these broken wings and learn to fly...

Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow waves of joy
are drifting thorough my open mind
Possessing and caressing me

Beatles songs are playing themselves in my head, and I don't know if that's a good thing.

These past few days I've gone from frustrated and sad and back at my inability to finish the story I want to submit to the Fully Booked competition. There, I said it for all the world to read. You might think that a bit presumptuous on my part--to want to submit a story to a big competition like that--but all I really want to do is write a good, complete, and readable story that isn't about love, and maybe, just maybe--the kind that's look-to-the-heavens-and-hope-to-God kind of maybe--win some cash in the process.

Thoughts meander like a
restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as
they make their way across the universe

But writing has proven to be a laborious and frustrating effort; I'd think of words and outlines while riding on the back of a tricycle going at 40 through the dark back streets of Pasig, and when I finally find the time to put them down, all that's left are ghosts and fog.

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round.
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me.

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Symptoms of Cretinism

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