The Minute My White Shirt Comes Clean It's Dirty Again

I used to blog, because I knew how to arrange my words into sentences, and my sentences into paragraphs, and my paragraphs into posts. They weren't ever well written, really, or even grammatically correct always, but they were at least words. Words with occasional attempts at wit or inspiration. Words that made me feel semi-important, and semi-important is good enough, right? It was good enough for me.

Now, things aren't sitting well with my words, and I can't arrange them into posts. Nothing comes out right, and nothing is really worth actually writing down. But shouldn't anything be worth writing down? It's writing, and well, I'm not sure. My words, actual words worth reading, come and go. They come and go like the rain and the sun, like the leaves in the fall, and like all my stains in those white shirts; they always come back after they are gone.



Hey, come back to me.
Perpetually Yours,
Morgan