by Christie Perkins

So I wake up every morning greeted by the mod podge dumpings just beyond the foot of my bed. Some of it is new stuff that needs new places, some of it old. Hello! The pile is a little more chipper than I am at it’s rude awakening.

Ta-dah!

Hey, I say then run away. I like you and all but my spaces are small, you look comfortable there next to the wall. But, it’s about time I combat my inner brawl.

You (pile of things) have out-stayed your welcome. I keep feeding you more and more things because… because, well, you look hungry. Yeah, that’s it. You eat everything that anyone feeds you, rejecting no offers (Dude! even dilapidated Christmas bows and useless empty boxes that stow… this pile just grows and grows!). You suck my energy then expect me to pick up after you. You are sleeping at the foot of my bed, and though you don’t snore your drooling all over the place. I like you. I do. I just need my own space of sunshine and grace.

And then the solution to the problem I got: you just need your own-grown name-plot spot.

Well. There’s a sunrise moment if you’ve never seen one. (And since I would rather close my eyes to it, it festered like an oozy zit… ok, I’ll stop this rhyming fit.)

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