The Road to Hell. . .

is paved with good intentions. Or so they say.

I am the fulcrum of a seesaw.
An actively mobile plank of wood
Stretching across a single point -
Me.

I am two children riding a seesaw.
A constantly wavering solid beam
Carrying up and down its young riders -
Me and Me.

I am the fulcrum and the riders.
An often vascillating single entity
Striving for person, wife, teacher -
Me, Me, and Me.


I would be a merry-go-round.
A simple circle of level steel
Spinning endlessly its single role -
Me.

Naomi's poetry obsession is contagious. . .I haven't written poetry in ages. I also haven't posted in ages, as said person so relentlessly reminds me. I've been protecting the computer from vituperative entries about obnoxious behavior and undesirable attitudes that, apparently, are also contagious. However, with Kevin now finished with classes for the semester and a faint light at the end of my own tunnel, I am beginning to feel a spark of hope. Actually, it may have more to do with a certain visitor at the end of this week and a coming day off. Or both.

I confess I am finally becoming anxious for this school year to end. I need some breathing space. Some listening space not filled with an infinite string of profanities. Some speaking space that doesn't require a near shout. Some space, period. I cannot imagine doing this for a lifetime. How does one protect oneself from the continual bombardment? I fancy myself capable of sufficient protection for a few short years, but for a life? The secret, I am sure, is in Scripture - the eternal breath of fresh air that purifies our sin-sick souls. Yet even Scripture so easily is pushed aside in the constant craze and demand of this 60-hour-a-week job. I must improve my time management. Later. When I have time. . .