Sometimes
Sometimes when I lay down to think about myself as a person there is always something making me not able to come up with an answer to why I’m such a terrible thing.
Most of the time it depends on my natural way of not being able to concentrate very well. There always seems to be something more interesting to think about or another important project to finish, like my dinner plate.
My mom used to say it was because of my “primal” instincts, and to me, that always sounded very strange and childish, at least it did when I still was in my pre-adulthood years. Because of this I had for the most part dismissed what she said and now I’m regretting it.
Though I’ve been having this monologue in my head for quite some time I still haven’t found any solution to why this is and how to solve my ever-lasting problems.
It sure is hard being a white pointer.
Poetry and I 