Real-Life Kitchens

If luck is something that we create, then something is wrong with my internal luck oven. Nothing's being cooked up, baked, or pieced together here. Instead, things in my life fall apart, get messy, and then make more mess again. It's like I'm a 5 year-old trying to accomplish the top most difficult recipes of all history in a one room house with an oven that will blow every breaker in the house if it is running at the same time as the microwave.
When I was made, they must have put a blender inside of me instead of a mixing bowl. Everything would be a whole lot simpler if things in my life had the luxury of being slowly stirred together with care in a pretty, ceramic bowl as opposed to being crammed together and chopped into one big heap of unlucky dust.

Writer of The Night

It's 4:03, I should be in bed.
I stay up too late, writing stories in my head.

Being sleepy doesn't matter,
My ideas only get fatter.

The nights go on and on,
As I try my hand at writing songs.

I'm not too bad at it,
As long as I don't have to sit.

I've found I can't write in a chair,
I have to constantly move around everywhere.

I don't mind being awake so late,
I guess all my ideas just use the daytime to bake.

At night, they're ready to be jotted down,
I write them in scribbles with colored pencils I found.

I wonder sometimes who else in the world is up,
Maybe someone getting a drink to cure a bad case of the hiccups.

My dog follows me when I go downstairs to write,
Snoring and sprawled out on the floor, she's quite a sight.

I read my writings to her aloud,
She snores in approval and I fell proud.

I think someday I'll share my writing with the world,
Maybe I'll become famous and get my hair curled.

Days Spent on Daisy Lane

This puzzle piece don't mean much to you, but to me, it holds the world/ I was five years old at my grandma's that day/ She smiled and laughed as we played games all the way/ Down memory lane this puzzle piece takes me/ Through love and laughter and the happier times/ When we lived just to be/ Grandma's old rocking chair sat on the front porch/ I did my chalk on the front walk/ Those same bricks gave me my very first ever scar/ Right here on my left arm/ But grandma held me close/ She didn't tell me not to cry/ She let me decide on my own/ And with a bandage, and a hug, and a glass of homemade iced tea, my arm didn't feel so bad/ Grandma pulled out a puzzle, a blanket, and a smile/ And set up a picnic in the lawn/ And when neither of us could piece together any of the pieces/ She let me pick out a piece to take home/ And there it sits today/ All cozy in its own box on the shelf/ Right next to a photograph of a beautiful woman who had a shooting star smile/ And a laugh that could erase all the pain in the world/ This puzzle piece don't mean much to you, but to me, it holds the world.