I was so inspired by yesterday’s guest post by Justin Germino that I plunked my ample behind in a comfy chair and had another go at poetry writing.

Like most, I have a teen journal filled with earnest but wanting attempts and it breaks my heart to read them. A bad poem is like a sloppy kiss. I want my poetry to be like uvula-rattling historical fiction sex—the kind where the hero has you backwards on a horse and you both climax as you leap from a cliff to the top of his castle, or I don’t want it to exist at all.

Granted, this demand for perfection of expression is most likely going to keep my feet glued to the springboard unless I beat it into submission with insolent, mediocre little practice poems.

So I gave it a go, and it wasn’t long before I started to remember that if you’re me it sucks to write poetry. It’s fun—an absolute blast in fact, but it sucks. I can usually cough up a good line or two, but, as with ball sports, the difference between a zero and a hero rests in the follow-through—and I ain’t got none o’ that.

I attempted a poem about rain and somehow ended up with the start of a Country Western song:

The last time Georgia danced slow
was at a honky tonk in Barstow
The rain was hard
and the wind whipped cruel
but his body was safe and warm

Maybe someday I’ll finish it. Or maybe not.

Then out of nowhere this popped into my head:

His gentle white ivories nourished
the keys and the
song sprang up
to greet
him

Then nothing. It was like a door slammed shut in my brain. I chased after the next door and the next until the scenario played out in my brain in the manner of the opening sequence of Get Smart. As always, the sophomore stanza is devastated by some ludicrous, infantile rhyme that my consciousness rightfully (and thankfully!) dives ten neural feet to head-butt into oblivion.

I blame you, Dr. Seuss. It’s become apparent that I’ve fatally internalized you and Theo LeSeig, and am doomed to emulate and derate your legacy. Case in point:

The man went to the country bar
Far, far to the country bar
And his boots
Went root toot
And his spurs and belt buckle
went whir and tootschmukel
In the most particularly schmuckulous way
you might say…

I am ruined!

Never again!

Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.

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This is my introductory post here on Happymaking and instead of talking about blogging tips and technology, I decided to make this my guest spot for creative writing and poetry.  My name is Justin Germino and I have been writing amateur poetry since I was eleven years old.  My first poems I read that I can recall were Tiger by William Blake and The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe and ever since reading these works and many others poetry was something that called out to me.

For me it is just merely a hobby, I write when I am inspired or as a way to vent my emotions whether they be joy, anger, pain or sorrow.  I often will put emotion and feeling into my work, but because I am also extremely analytical and technical minded I also write poems that some would consider very analytical.  I construct poems mostly to try and fit as much meaning into as few words as possible.

Seventeen months ago I developed something called the Random Twitter Poetry game on twitter where fans send me a random word and I take all random words submitted and craft a unique and random poem including all random words played.  I find a common theme with all the words and then start writing my sentences around the words until I get something that “Fits”.  I am rapidly approaching my 300th random twitter poem, and you can see all of my works on Wanderer Thoughts Poetry if you are interested.

Here I will share one of my earliest posts I wrote in my teenage years called Serentacity, it is a word with no meaning, and yet has many meanings.

Serentacity

When hope glistens like dew on the leaves at dawn,
When the future seems bright and warm with decision,
You are at your peak when you have too many choices,
Each one more fulfilling than the last.

When you have dozens of roads that have never been paved,
When you have so many colors in so many shades,
You are at your peak when there is so much to think about,
Each thought more enjoyable than the last.

In all of these options and in all of these thoughts,
There is but one word that sums it all up, but has no meaning,
Serentacity.

-Justin Germino

Feel free to follow me on twitter, my handle is “DragonBlogger” I do my random twitter poetry game almost every weekday and I look forward to the new unique words and challenges presented.

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I’ve been avoiding my blog, plain and simple. Afraid of it, really. It can, you see, be a time-sucker, magic-buster and dasher of dreams.

I now have a goal of writing a novel and am determined to stay focused. But when I discuss my goals they have a way of rolling down a snowy hilltop towards lower elevations until they end up in a puddle next to some stupid Joshua tree, breathing life into a scorpion or some other heartless desert dweller.

Over the next few months, I’ll be posting less and reading more. My friend Holly Jahangiri was kindly cruel enough, in the most gently pragmatic manner possible, to nudge me towards full realization of the importance of having an actual product (book, script, article) under one’s arm while in the pursuit of a career in writing. Ain’t no agent in the world going to look at my blog and proclaim me an artistic genius in the rough and sign me, then beg me to write the next great novel, and offer to put me and my family up at her nanny-filled resort in Antarctica for the time being to assure peace, quiet and uninterrupted writing time.

My short-term goal is to finish reading a few fiction-writing books I’ve left simmering on the back burner while I oh, I don’t know, thrust myself further away from my goal on a daily basis by spending my time doing things that don’t support it.

Then, once I’ve finished the books, I’m going to fire up yWriter and lay down my first complete novel. I realize I may need to spend a year or so editing and re-writing it, but I’m okay with that. Writing is, after all, re-writing.

And once that bad sucker is as good as I can get it, I’m going to wrap it in a pretty little bow and send it off to unsuspecting agents and publishers, being careful to adhere to their submission guidelines, while I take the next  six months to recover from the complete brain and soul-wrenching I just served up for myself get started on my next novel.

I’m well aware that I may be doing this for eight to ten years before I get good enough to produce a publishable work, and I’m fine with that. Okay, I’m not fine with that. That’s was a fib. But I’ve accepted it.

What I’m struggling with at present, while reading storytelling books, is the compulsion to plot. How does one hold back long enough to learn before plodding forward like the “Hey Kool-Aid!” guy and splattering one’s sugarless mental grape juice on all manner of expensive, resentful journals?

I’m always teetering between YA Fiction and Romantic Comedy. Which to focus on? TELL ME! Sigh. I realize now that nobody else can tell me that. Only the story can make it plain. And so I read and jot down ideas and just know that it will happen, because I’m finally ready to get out of my own way and allow it to happen.

************************************

By the way, I created a second twitter account for following other budding writers like myself, and those in the field – @HeatherKephart. (I only follow writers, editors, etc., on that account, my blogging/general twitter account is @Happymaker.) I have found in the past that I am unable to reach goals unless I surround myself with like-minded people. Otherwise, I get too distracted. Here’s to our dreams!

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Image by Clover_1 via Flickr

I’ve long held the opinion that people, upon moving, should immerse themselves in the culture of their locale, rather than alter it to suit themselves with regard to their own familiarities.

When my family moved to Pollock Pines, California back in the early 1980’s, I noticed that people displayed “Stomp Out Flatlanders” bumper stickers on their trucks. This, of course, begged the question: Exactly what is a Flatlander? Is a Flatlander a sub-species of homo sapiens with distinct, categorizable quirks and patterns? Or is a Flatlander somebody unfamiliar that you can’t get a beat on, who therefore poses an unspoken threat?

I believe the definition is closer to the former. Flatlanderhood isn’t comprised of any set number of qualities, but if one should possess certain qualities, one is most definitely a Flatlander.

Qualities that put one in the Flatlander category back in in 1981:

Metrosexual – We didn’t have a word for it back then, but we knew it when we saw it.
Inappropriate Garb – Keds in a snowstorm, rather than moon boots.
Weird Car - And by weird I mean anything other than Ford or Chevy.
Classical Music - Are you kiddin’? If it don’t got a fiddle they’re gonna kick ya in the hey diddle diddle.
Keeping to Yourself - You think you’re too good for us?
Excessive Friendliness - What do you want from us? Go away!
Overt Displays of Happiness – Get a real job! Get your hands dirty!
Sugarloaf – Thinking it is a Little Debbie product rather than a camp for kids.
Paying for a Cord of Wood – Git yer a*s out there and chop you some, sissy!

I could go on. But I won’t. Because I’m starting to recognize myself.

I AM NOW THE FLATLANDER.

I’m new to the Dallas, Texas area and painfully out of the loop. I don’t know how people here spend their weekends. I don’t understand why there is a dance studio on every block, or why these people are so into donuts. They sell Mai Tai mix and Margarita salt in the aisle next to the milk, but you have to drive to a different county to procure a bottle of liquor.

Most homes don’t have driveways in the front, but alleys in the back where you can access your garage. I do not understand the protocol associated with these alleyways. What do you do if you meet another car? Drive backwards for half a block? And why do you have to do it? Why don’t they do it? What if you both do it at the same time, then stop and drive forward at the same time until you end up right back where you started?

Contrary to the general and uninformed opinion most native Californians have of Texans, these folks have really nice hair. Straight hair. Shiny hair. They’re very well groomed – better groomed, in fact, than yours truly. Maybe a little too well-groomed. Appearances are important here, just as important as they are in most of California.

In Plano, people don’t wear pajamas to Blockbuster the way they did in Yucca Valley, CA. They wear full makeup and nice boots. They’re polite. If you reach for the same movie, they say things like, “Oh no, please – you take it!”, but their smiles don’t always meet their eyes.

Costco is a popular meeting place around lunch time. As in California, Texans linger around the free sample area. There are two apparent varieties – hawks and chickens. The hawks wait until the free sample hostess is involved in a conversation with somebody else, then swoop by with their cart, snag the little cup with the steak chili, eyes widening with the thrill of it, then soar on out of there, never stopping, never having missed a beat.

Chickens approach slowly and make an attempt to determine their appropriate place in line, then fill it. They smile at the people around them, and rub their hands together in anticipation. They’ll tell you what their huband or wife thinks of this brand of chili because, as luck would have it, they’ve been purchasing it regularly for the last six months.

They’ll smile at your baby girl and try to make you feel better by admitting that their daughter didn’t have much hair at that age either, and that her lack of hair is probably an indication of future curliness. It just gets stuck, you see, until it grows strong enough to corkscrew its way out. They’ll act it out for you.

You don’t know if they’re wearing a wig or if that’s their real hair. This holds true no matter the age or gender of the chicken. You try not to stare at the hair and fail, but the chicken doesn’t seem to mind. They pat you on the arm and smile and wink at you.

Chickens don’t care that you’re different. A chicken will take you in even if you are a stinkin’ ole Flatlander.

Someday, I want to be a chicken too.

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I’ve been a stay at home Mom for three years now, but when I worked in financial services, multitasking with a sense of urgency was the golden standard. There weren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish what needed to be done, and an ever-present school of wishes nibbled at the rim of my consciousness—things I wished to accomplish to increase my efficiency and put my team in a position to spend their time doing what they did best, selling, instead of floundering in minutiae that could have and should have been delegated to me or another associate, if only we had the time.

Today, while working on a weekly schedule and wondering if it’s possible to purchase sanity by the ounce, it hit me. I’d never come down to Earth. I’d packed that very same golden standard on my back, from Wall Street all the way into Motherhood.

“Great!” you might be thinking. If ever a job requires multitasking skills and a sense of urgency, it’s Motherhood. It’s one half of the most demanding job in the world, if one is lucky enough to go into it as a Partnership rather than Sole Proprietorship; there are no higher stakes, no more important a charge, no “clients” more precious and deserving.

However, while one most certainly should expect to experience concurrences of will and nature where the golden standard is warranted, it should be held in a holster on the hip an arm’s reach away unless, of course, one is a workaholic. In that case it should be kept in a locked vault in the basement, under a copy of The Tao of Pooh.

There in that hallway it hit me like a ton of bricks—slow down, but keep on moving. Pace yourself. I thought, this isn’t the old pre-parent days when you could slam out a day’s work, then go and pass out on the couch for the rest of the day and evening if you needed to recover. You’re a parent now. Your job is 24/7.

When you are at home and not in an office, and you can make your own rules, concentrate on one thing at a time, most of the time. Sleep, take a breather, do what you have to do to relax and keep your sanity, but keep moving. Picture cross-country running rather than an elbow-knocking sprint. Think about doing one thing per hour for three hours instead of doing three things at once for two hours. You should be tuning out far less often to recover from the brain drain and mock ADD created by multitasking, and this should make up some time.

If you are a stay at home Mom like me, realize you don’t need to justify your existence with a constant stream of busywork. Focus on what truly matters to you. What matters to me the most right now is the well-being of my children, my family as a whole, and nurturing my passion and my creative outlet: writing. The way I spend my time should reflect and support that.

Unfortunately, at the moment, it doesn’t. Instead of burying myself with my habit of perpetuating and possibly even creating needless busywork just to feel intellectually and existentially solvent, I should use the situation to and for my advantage, and for the well-being of those for whom I temporarily resonate with God-like power and light.

Somehow I can’t get it through this thick skull of mine that it’s okay to take the day and do nothing with it but spend time with my children. That feels like cheating. Before becoming a wife and mother late in life, I had always worked and was confident in my ability to support myself. Now I am dependent upon my husband not only for his income, but for his support as a husband and father. This terrifies me. And so, I manufacture work for myself via blogging and social networking and tell myself it will lead to something someday, that I too am contributing to the family.

Until I can hold up a paycheck to my husband procured via my blogging or writing, I will always feel guilty that I get to stay home with our children while he has to spend the day at outside work. This is not his fault; I do it to myself. I’ve been told countless times that what I do matters, that there’s no more important job in the world than to see to one’s family. But in a society that turns down the volume on working women who are lucky enough to choose to be stay at home Moms, I found that I want to be heard.

And so I am in constant motion, trying to make something of myself while I spend my days in the comfort of our home. I’m looking at the wrong way, I know that. Every Mother of older children tries to impress on me the inestimable value of these years, when our children need so much from us, and are willing to hug us in public. I need to stop the madness. By slowing down I just might be able to coax time into matching my pace.

Like me, your child will peer in your eyes for signs of attention, to make sure you are dialed in. You know it’s impossible to fool her, yet you persist. If you’re thinking about a client, or the bills, or how to prioritize to make more time to spend with her, she will know. And it will make her sad. And eventually, if you do it enough, she just might tune you out, or stop believing you when you say, “Just five minutes. I only need to… and then I’ll… I promise.”

Slow down. But keep on moving. Schedule your time if you have to, at least until you can be trusted to your own devices. Write a list of everything you need to accomplish, followed by things you desperately want to accomplish to meet your personal, family, creative, or professional goals. Fit it in; make it work. This is not a new concept: if something is sucking your time and not fostering your spirit, your family, or your goals, put it in the “when I have extra time” pile. And do make that pile. It’s the only way you’ll allow yourself to put it aside. And over time if it turns out that you don’t have extra time, let it go.

Check things off. With two small children at home, I have to snatch time for my personal and creative goals when I can. Therefore, it makes sense for me to schedule small blocks of daily time, with no set hours, to accomplish my writing and networking goals. Half hour of commenting on blogs, check. Half hour of social networking, check. Half an hour of writing, check. Perhaps I will create recurring tasks on Outlook and check them off after they are accomplished.

If you don’t set time limits for yourself and your children are good nappers, most likely each of those half hours will turn into many hours, and you’ll still end up feeling as though you accomplished nothing. By physically checking off items on our daily schedules, we build our self-confidence and self-trust. We take back control over our lives.

I’m  hoping that I will be able to render my childrens’ time with me more fulfilling, tackle my personal obligations, and still honor my writing goals to my satisfaction. By slowing down and focusing my full attention on my babies or the task at hand to the highest degree possible, I’m hoping I will feel less divided and frazzled, that much closer to my children and to whom I want to become.

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I’m feeling more comfortable in our new Texas home. One thing that makes me happy is taking pictures.

This is what I see when Mom is working and I crawl under her desk to bite her toe.

Lily's sippy cup is empty. Mooommy!

Mommy doesn't know this but she puts her hand on her face when she is thinking.

I dragged the rocking chair into the family room from Mommy & Daddy's room. I was bored.

I like my dune buggy.

My feet are getting bigger.

Daddy thought he would be a big ball of blur in this photo. Hee hee.

Mom told me to stay away from this, so naturally I am taking a close-up photo.

Mom put this in the family room, then freaked out one day and put it in the back yard.

Mom said she used to think I had six toes. She's nuts.

My sister Lily likes it when I flash the camera in her face.

That's it for now. Bye bye.

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If you’re a blogger and you want people to actually read your blog, and you probably do, or maybe you don’t, or maybe you do and say you don’t or vice-versa, blogging is not enough.

Our blog posts by themselves are but a sneeze on the upturned noggin of Cyberslovokia. If you want to turn the head of Master Internet, Mistress Interweb or Uncle Intergoogle, you also need to develop the skills of a public relations professional slash search engine optimization engineer. (Isn’t that how it’s listed on Monster daht cawm?) The whole kit and caboodle.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a good head for business. In my perfect world, left to my own devices I would fully submerge myself in the universal spring of creativity. I’d cover myself with mayonnaise and glitter, put on a beret, take a big swig of pumpkin butter and think my most private thoughts at you with my mind.

Sound terrifying? That’s because it is. This is why things are set up the way they are. To keep us from turning into characters from Easy Rider. And, via the accountability borne of sharing freely what once belonged to us alone, to occasionally save us from ourselves. Plus, it ain’t easy gettin’ glitter out of your belly button.

Just to keep things decent, and bloggers civilized, we must also promote ourselves. That’s why we’re in your faces, irritating you like gnats up the nostril, networking and neck-licking like debutantes in a Miss Fancy Nosegay contest.

These days I blog to hone my craft and connect with people who entertain and inspire, laugh with me, and help me make sense of the world. I am discovering amazing people with shared interests who can and do introduce me to resources that will help me to realize my potential as a writer. I don’t know how to do this by myself, nor do I want to. So I blog, comment on other blogs, and poke around inside your head. It’s you that I want. You are the reason I’m here.

It took me a while to realize that.

That said, oh the horror, I created a Facebook Fan Page today. OUCH! Every time I say it God drops a giant iron anvil on my head. (Hmm… I wonder if I can absorb iron via the wound and put my cast iron skillet to rest… but I digress…) Who the heck am I to be creating a FAN page? Fan pages are for Roddy McDowall, not for regular, everyday folks like yours truly. You have Anne to blame. ‘Twas her post about de-cluttering your sidebar that inspired the idea.

Please know that, despite what Dave Doolin might say if he had a really bad headache and a twisted ankle, I really don’t think too much of myself. (Dave, I couldn’t resist teasing. You know I am fond of you. Not in a creepy or inappropriate way, though. Not in the way I am fond of Jannie Funster. Ooh, come to Feather Heather, Jannie, ooh, that’s it… bring the poodle, oh yeeees… )

In any case, I’m hoping it’s a smart move that will help me to discover who among my friends is interested in my writing, so I may leave the rest in peace before they hire a hit man, and to develop new contacts in the writing world from which I may learn.

Hopefully, eventually I will be able to help others as well. If I ever get good at this writing business you can rest assured I will be thrilled to help other hungry budding writers like myself. (I was going to say hungry young writers, but, lol, yeah I know.)

How about you? Do you have a Facebook Fan Page? If so, please leave a link in the comments section below so that I may become your Fan. I’m probably already your fan, so let’s make it official.

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Our classy mirrored bar room, baby.

Our new house came with a fairly extensive learning curve. It’s an odd U shape and sports more windows and light switches than the viewing room at Good Morning America.

I’m not a fan of ridiculously bright rooms. I like a subtle, glowing atmosphere. Hence, nearly every time I walk by the living room I flick off the overhead lights. Only I’m not flicking off the overhead lights, I’m actually flicking the switch that my husband’s computer and light are plugged into. It’s not my fault they put the switches in the wrong place. I’ll get used to it eventually. Ahh, the little things we do on a daily basis to compound our marital bliss.

Which makes me think of this morning. I cooked eggs for the kiddos in a little cast iron skillet that we found buried in the back yard of our old house in Placerville when I was a teenager, scrubbed to a black sheen by my determined Mother. She read somewhere that I can get iron in my kids’ diets by cooking with a cast iron skillet. I don’t know if it’s true, but I figure it can’t hurt. (Note to self: buy some SOS pads.)

After an unsuccessful battle with the stubborn egg funk coating the sides of the skillet aprés cook, I tucked my tail betwixt my legs and trudged over to the side of the fridge to add non-stick cooking spray to my running list. Shocked and pleased was I to discover that my husband had added something to the list for the very first time: AAA batteries! However, since he was in the area, he saw fit to install judgment on my denotation of intent to purchase self-tanner.

Listen up, Mr. Smug with the natural golden glow. I’m sick of being mistaken for the recent undead due to my ghastly white pallor. Not only that, I’m convinced that if I carefully apply self tanner to the ridges of the cellulite craters on my thighs I will render them invisible. Again, I have no proof to back this up but it’s worth a try. You’ll be thanking me later.

We all had fun last night after bath time. There is nary such a pleasing sight to thine eyes as my babies Joe and Lily scooting around in their jammies, freshly-scrubbed and sweet-smelling, high on new surroundings to claim and explore.

What's your order, Mom?

Joe was moving so fast I had to snap this picture two seconds before he ran into the kitchen to get the shot.

Here are some random pictures of the past couple of weeks for interested family and friends to peruse. Some were taken at home, others at Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas. Have a wonderful Sunday, everybody.

Lily and Brian camped out in our living room shortly before the move to Texas.

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Hello, y’all! It’s me Heather from Teckshuhs!

I’ve been considering doing occasional link love type posts in the manner of Karen of Blazing Minds and her Weekly Round Ups, and DiTesco of iBlogZone and his Weekly Echoes. I look forward to learning what caught their attention that week. Sharing their discoveries also helps me to learn more about them and their interests, and makes me feel like I know them better. Love is shared, new contacts are forged, everybody is happy.

My only concern is that I may hurt some feelings by omission. To those of you who run and enjoy these types of posts, what are your thoughts on the implied politics? For the record, I am not offended when I don’t see my name on link love lists at any website, and am always surprised and thankful when I do.

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You know how it is.

You accidentally kick out a light bulb while dancing on the ceiling.

Your mini Dachshund rips out an oak tree in the back yard leaving a gaping, potentially dangerous hole.

You drive into a gated community and stop to read a sign on the gate, dumb to the fact that the gate is slowly closing on you, until you shock into life and peel out to the sound of said gate scraping along the side of your van, faintly reminiscent of the Loch Ness Monster being strangled by Mothra.

You fix none of this. You want to. The visual reminders niggle at you every. single. day. But who has the time? The money? The energy?

It’s the same for me. I’ve been letting things slide lately. To be specific, I’ve been letting myself slide. I haven’t been tending to my physical, mental or spiritual fitness. My body is in a state, and it’s not one of the cool ones shaped like a boot. Oops, that’s Italy.

My hair is in a tizzy, in the mornings slightly frizzy, and way too dark. I look like a vampire with carpet bags under her eyes. My body resembles a hairless older cat sitting atop a bag of battling birds. I’m lethargic. Can’t concentrate to save my life. My nails, undone. Toes, unforgivably untended. Spirit, vacant and scooped out by the giant melon baller that is everyday life.

Mismanaged your money and can’t pay the auto bill on time? Scoop, splat.

Wondering if you’ve made a horrible mistake by uprooting part of your family and moving half way across the country? Scoop, splat.

Best friend from back in the day scheduled for neurosurgery in early February with “a good chance of survival”? Scoop, splat. Can’t breathe.

I’ve been spiraling away from the light. I know so many have it so much worse. This isn’t about realizing how lucky I am. This is about faith. Faith in the rightness of The Universe. Faith in oneself.

Do I have the ability to put things back the way they ought to be? To scrape my hope and confidence off the sides of the microwave, where they exploded away from me sometime mid-December, and plop them back into the bowl of me?

Like you, I want things to be good. Heck, even great. So I will do it. I’m starting to learn that picking up the pieces of ourselves and having another go at it is a necessary part of life if we want to be whole.

Starting small, of course. I started taking prenatal vitamins again. I bought a horse hair brush to coax my hair into growing. I purchased some grapes, and an eggplant. Eventually I will eat them.

When the weather gets better I will rise with Dennis’ alarm and take a bike ride, then come back and shower and put on a nice outfit and full hair and makeup, regardless of my plans for the day or lack of them.

Like a car revving behind the checkered flag, I will be ready.

I will get strong and stay strong because there are so many people I love, and so many I want to love, and there is so much to do.

Those of you who are my friends on Facebook who haven’t blocked me out of self-preservation know that I used to post LIVE videos all the time. Now I’m going to inflict them upon you here. Because today is a good day for LIVE.

Operation Spirit
by LIVE

Heard a lot of talk about the ocean
Heard a lot of talk about the sea
Heard a lot of talk about a lot of things
Never meant that much to me
.
Heard a lot of talk about my spirit
Heard a lot of talk about my soul
But I decided that anxiety and pain
Were better friends
So I let it go
.
Did you let it go?
Let’s get it back
Let’s get it back together
.
Heard a lot of talk about this Jesus
A man of love, and a man of strength
But what a man was two thousand years ago
means nothing at all to me today
.
He could have been telling me about my
higher self
But he only lives inside my prayer
So what he was may have been beautiful
But the pain is right now
And right here
.
Let it go!
Let it go!
Let it go, my friend
And let’s get it back
Let’s get it back together

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