There was a time when I fancied myself to be a poet. Oh, I'd get inspired, usually after watching "The X-Files" or something, and I'd start spewing out lines like I was Poe's cousin, Edgar Allan Poor. But the thing is, the poetry sucked. I mean, it was atrocious. 4 year olds with ADHD could create better art than I did at the time, and I soon realized that, so I stopped. But why keep all that yummy badness to myself? Here, world - share my pain.

The Crack

Beginning from nowhere, The crack in the ceiling mesmerizes me. Its sharp angles, haphazardly careening about Completely defy explanation.

How did it get there? Wise men say, "When the house settles, these black-hearted menaces appear." But not I. I think they are passageways to new adventures, Opening slowly.

The crack flows along the bottom of The attic floor, the same way the Great Pee Dee river races to the sea. However, its banks are made of plaster, not sand.

Where did it come from? Wise men say, "They happen when the molecules that comprise The ceiling separate." But not me. I believe Jupiter's alignment (plus Republican rule) created my nocturnal visitor.

Its progress is halted by the light fixture. From my vantage point, it looks as though A stream on the moon ends at a grand cathedral. I wonder of its occupants. Are they friend or foe?

Patiently, lazily, the crack exits the cathedral And continues its slow journey across the Wasteland. The arid climate does little to impede Its progress. The small mountains and shallow Valleys seem not to notice this lonely pilgrim, Marching along.

Finally, the weary crack reaches the end of its Journey. Only now do I realize its purpose. This river, this pilgrim, this crack in my ceiling Is merely urging me to keep striving.

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Told you.

Peace.