There’s something that really bugs me about To Do lists. Once it was only a mild irritation. Then one day in a meeting the person sitting next to me not only did it, but kept going over what they’d done again and again to the point I’m quite sure it would’ve been ad infinitum if the meeting hadn’t ended.
Now just the thought of it drives me insane with a pure rage and utter fury, that much like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon, has manifested as the beautiful verse below:
A poem possibly about indecision more than anything else.
A poem about Hollywood and the events recently in the spotlight there. Events present from its conception. Events present every and any where else too. Even way back before anyone ever knew films could be made or that there’d be a whole town dedicated to doing so when they could. Continue reading
Anytime I check my page, it bugs me to post something without the slightest care, concern or regard for whether I actually have anything worth saying. For that worth I’ve been getting book three ready—formatting; designing a cover; things like that—but that’s hardly scintillating news and the fact it’s taking longer than hoped is hardly helping my social-media-update cause. Continue reading
