A Mood Chart is like a rainbow overflowing with metaphoric colors. I could elaborate on the symbolism of each but X marks the spot of the Energizer Bunny today and should be embraced with productivity.
I'll settle on a Mood Chart for Dummies rather than sitting on these "Bunny batteries" long enough for a mood kill. This could lead to a unwanted period of recharging that leaves me sputtering like a gasless go-kart.
No one wants to push the pedals if it's determination is stationary.
A defunct thrill ride. An onset to knackered antecedence.
At first these mood charts seemed a bit elementary. Which color is my current location and what's the date and time of my departure to the next. Never had I imagined it's appearance would be so erratically tossed about. Purple, Yellow, Red, Green, Blue.
(In stating the obvious for reference; Blue brings Sir. Manic Depression and red introduces Miss Mania and all that's between forms the yellow brick road.)
I'm quite certain these colors would be a monstrous blue print for a traffic light.
New Yorker's in a gridlock with no streets. An engineer's dereliction.
Just as I reflect on my writings, I've reflected on these charts. Where does one come from the other and what made each detour seem appealing? These transient dissections of momentary emotions are the portrayal of my characteristic contrivance. A suspenseful conclusion of my personal cliff hanger.
I'm a colorful woman set apart from society's uniformity. A rebellious school girl dawning a short skirt. My realizations have set me free from Paranoia's acceptance. I am who I am and frankly I don't give a damn. A free spirit passing out fucks to onlooking naysayers.
( Though I don't give it, you may take it. They're free and It's on the house.)
This writing bares an eerie resemblance to my charts. It's jumping around like a kid in a bounce house.
I'm unsure of where it's going and where I'm going I have yet to figure out.
My story lacks it's table of contents with a confusing conformity of the foreword and preface. Time tells all and in time I'll tell. These pieces will fit together despite being jumbled upon the graph paper of Clarity.
Now that these words are scrambled like eggs on a plate it's time to pick up my drum, put on my shades and move this bunny forward.
Rum, tum, tum goes this girl with a drum.
I'll settle on a Mood Chart for Dummies rather than sitting on these "Bunny batteries" long enough for a mood kill. This could lead to a unwanted period of recharging that leaves me sputtering like a gasless go-kart.
No one wants to push the pedals if it's determination is stationary.
A defunct thrill ride. An onset to knackered antecedence.
At first these mood charts seemed a bit elementary. Which color is my current location and what's the date and time of my departure to the next. Never had I imagined it's appearance would be so erratically tossed about. Purple, Yellow, Red, Green, Blue.
(In stating the obvious for reference; Blue brings Sir. Manic Depression and red introduces Miss Mania and all that's between forms the yellow brick road.)
I'm quite certain these colors would be a monstrous blue print for a traffic light.
New Yorker's in a gridlock with no streets. An engineer's dereliction.
Just as I reflect on my writings, I've reflected on these charts. Where does one come from the other and what made each detour seem appealing? These transient dissections of momentary emotions are the portrayal of my characteristic contrivance. A suspenseful conclusion of my personal cliff hanger.
I'm a colorful woman set apart from society's uniformity. A rebellious school girl dawning a short skirt. My realizations have set me free from Paranoia's acceptance. I am who I am and frankly I don't give a damn. A free spirit passing out fucks to onlooking naysayers.
( Though I don't give it, you may take it. They're free and It's on the house.)
This writing bares an eerie resemblance to my charts. It's jumping around like a kid in a bounce house.
I'm unsure of where it's going and where I'm going I have yet to figure out.
My story lacks it's table of contents with a confusing conformity of the foreword and preface. Time tells all and in time I'll tell. These pieces will fit together despite being jumbled upon the graph paper of Clarity.
Now that these words are scrambled like eggs on a plate it's time to pick up my drum, put on my shades and move this bunny forward.
Rum, tum, tum goes this girl with a drum.
