tonight she's not wondering
what she would tell her daughter
she knows what she would tell her daughter
she'd ask her
what gods do you believe in
i'll build you a temple of mirrors so you can see them!
pick the brightest star you've ever wished on
i'll show you the light in you
that made that wish come true!
tonight she's not asking
you what you would tell your daughter
she's life deep in the hell--the slaughter
has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath
a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh
and she knows the war's not over
knows there's bleeding to come
knows she's far from the only woman or girl
trusting this world no more than the hands
trust rusted barbed wire
she was whole before that night
believed in heaven before that night
and she's not the only one
she knows she won't be the only one
she's not asking what you're gonna tell your daughter
she asking what you're gonna teach
your son

Blue Blanket -- Andrea Gibson

03 October 2011: I really am working on it -- writing, I mean. I know, I've said this all before, but I meant it then, I mean it still. So much goes into it, creating something worthwhile. Something you feel proud of at the end of the day. And I always did, yet somehow I lost my way. Everyone has that moment they look back at and cringe. Well, when you write, or attempt to, those moments are printed not only in your memory, but on paper too. And I cringe, sometimes. I'm working on not cringing. When I stop, when I go back to merely wincing, then I'll post something.

Peace