Monday, May 6, 2013

Poetry...

Ghosts of the past, reaching their tendrils toward me. I run forward, but they cloud my eyesight. They cloud my mind. I run to get away, but they want me to stay. The air is cold like frost, ice crystals stinging my face. It hurts. I am frozen.

Contemplation for the day...

Getting in is easy, it's staying in that's the real test of character.