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| Little Glass House Depression sometimes gets a grip on me like a vise. Happiness hits me whenever I come upon a great new idea. My little glass house is only shattered when I let someone in. I can be easily swayed by mere suggestion, but not by orders. I don't always tell the truth, but that's normally to keep someone Out of my litle glass house and out on the green grass. Sometimes letting them see planted weeds is better than letting them see the true stains on the carpet. I like curtains on windows-I don't know why. A bare window looks sloppy and makes me think of a bare soul. There are things about myself I don't want to know or to let anyone else know. I could probably benifit from some sort of psychiatry or another, But that would mean letting someone into my glass house. My eczema only gets bad when I am hot or stressed or trying to get sleep. When I look into the miorror, I don't recognize myself. When I see recent pictures of myself, I don't think it's possible for me to look like that. I still see myself as I was when I was thirteen, but then, so do alot of people. I know my poems aren't the best. Neither are my stories or books, But that's why I don't let people read them, unless I know they won't laugh. They are like furniture in my house, things that express who I am. I don't like people spilling things on my furniture. Stains are hard to remove. I am scared of growing up-of life in the next five or ten years. These will be the most important for me-they will determine who I am. For the rest of my life-if I am to be a mother and a wife Or if I am to be a woman who puts all of her time into her work. I hope my little glass house doesn't fall apart in an earthquake. |
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