Tag: life lessons

Like a painting, I was unfinished. And you like to start projects, but not ever complete them. Until my frontal lobes developed–until I was a fully completed sculpture, I could not finish this poem. Confusion of that time stuck like putty in the holes of my frontal lobes.

Tags anatomy, biology, brain development, creative nonfiction, Daily Poetry, daily writing, frontal lobes, life lessons, life of a writer, love, neurology, Poem Of The Day, Poetry, psychology, short story, teenage brain, teenagers, Writing

Writing

Schedule Monster

When I wake up I want to be a grown-up. And I’ll tell you why. Every night after dinner, my mom and dad tell me we have a big day planned tomorrow and tell me all the things we have to do. And every night after talking about it all, I just wish for once there was nothing to do all day. But when I said this to mom and dad last night, they told me that living without a plan was a surefire way to attract the schedule monster. The schedule monster runs around in your brain asking you (1) what you’re going to do (2) why you don’t have a plan for the day (3) why you don’t have a plan for your life, all day over and over because there was no plan. I asked if that still happens when you become a grown-up and they said yes. So why do I want to be a grown-up when I wake up? Because then at least I can decide what time to have dinner.

Writing

Leaning In

Replying to the last of my clients and closing Outlook, I lament the ticket to D.C. that will go unused tonight. I fight back a tightness in my throat that I’ve come to understand needs two fingers of whiskey to solve at the end of the day. No one did this to me.

I always said you’re not ready to start your own company until you can’t remain at any other company.

Truthfully, I let myself steal from myself. I stole my future from myself. Procrastinating to avoid managing emotions about living. The reward of putting things off…that feeling becoming an addiction in itself. A dream adjacent my true dream.

My vision for this company is like rain. Cleaning out self-pity and distractions that tug at my memory, emotional reserves, concentration, and—

“¿Qué cenamos?”

“Dejame…”

He scurries away like I’ve just raised my hand to slap him. Maybe he’ll ask his father and be scared enough to actually leave me alone. I love my kids. I love my kids. I love them. But I can’t love my clients, kids, boss, husband, churchgoers, everyone! Can I?

I pour the whiskey and set my out of office email with no return date.

Writing

Playing Fetch With Hearts

Post author By G. Pearson
Post date April 4, 2022
No Comments on Playing Fetch With Hearts

Like a yo-yo, I believe I’m playing a game until I realize the string and the yo-yo are both trapped in a dance.

I’ve been here many times before and yet I always feel strange. This is not a home. I’d rather be thrown and have no one come pick me up just to end this love game.

Tags creative nonfiction, daily writing, life lessons, life of a writer, short story, Writing

Writing

Flash Before My Eyes

When the sun is setting on this life I skipped through, I will reverse and replay.

I will watch my life and laugh and cry and never once during a love scene will I have to wonder “what if?”

That is not to say I won’t wince or grimace at the times I embarrassed myself or eschewed self-control.

Inevitably though, I will enjoy the show.

Tags creative nonfiction, daily writing, life lessons, life of a writer, short story, Writing

Writing

Would Old Posts Die Out

Should beasts eat their tail!

Venom… years later, at will

Old posts… not yet dead

Writing

The View’s Awhile

We can try hiking until we find exactly where the sunrise will look best. But we will end up cold and standing on a tilting rock to get an almost perfect view.

Maybe if we hop in an air balloon—but then that would lead to us freezing away while we chase a pretty skyline.

Writing

Art

Post author By G. Pearson
Post date March 21, 2022
No Comments on Art

You can choose but one

Nonpolitical space/art

True, he fit his name

Writing

Alone In My Mind

With clanging whirlwinds

Still meditating—no breath—

My own voice unheard

Writing

Writer Who Does Not

Writer who does not:

Separate island, stale wind

No thought, words, sound, life…

Writing

The Starting Over

I stir the cream into my coffee. The sky is lit with the moon and it keeps me awake enough to race with my thoughts. “Compatible,” I think. I keep getting hit with this word when I least want to hear it. When I make a play for permanence, the other party starts their doubts. “Is it me or her timing?” “Is she consistent?” “Is she looking at me right now?” I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, but I do. And then they hit me with it. “Do you think we’re compatible?” And the next move is crucial. Because once they ask, there is only one correct answer.

Writing

In-Patients

Knock, hinges, then light

Gentle, cold touch as bill mounts

“like to go home please…”

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