Embarassment

Regret has already set in. My silly poems look so ridiculous and trite in the daylight, that it's all I can do from ripping it all down. I just keeping repeating to myself that they are simply rhyming practice and don't think you're Pushkin or something. Chadwick saw this window up, but I made his put it in the vault and promise not to tell anyone.

Here's one from last night, trying to combating the way I get all whiny and tragical when I'm overtired, like a five year old.

Midnight Hysteria

The day is done and so am I
I want to sleep, and also cry

Today is more than I can face
Oh dread! Tomorrow'll soon take its place

I throw up my hands, and down my head--
It will all look better from my bed.