Shake the Dust.

This is for anyone that has ever been a prisoner. Prisoner of war. State Prisoner. Prisoner of Azkaban. This is for anyone that has ever been a prisoner to their lack of self confidence. A prisoner to their own fear.

Shake the dust.

This is for the children. The child that got adopted, but for the rest of his life felt like something was missing. This is for the boring twin sister. The kids that never had a chance.

Shake the dust.

This is for the books that don't get read. The ones that are judged by their covers. This is for the bookworms that can lock themselves in between 2 shelves all day without anyone noticing them. For the people that need an escape.

Shake the dust.

This is for the weary. The Abandoned.

Shake the dust.

This is for the mother that has lost a son in a war. This is for the single mother that works day after day to provide for her kids. This is for the father who waits by the door for hours because he is worried about his daughter on her first date.

Shake the dust.

This is for the lonely. The addicts. For the addicts that are always one fix away from quitting. One more. One more. One more... This is for the older brother that's got too much pride to come home. This is for the attention seekers. This is for the kid that is always at the back of the line because his name is Zack Zimmerman.

Shake the dust.Wake up.Take your life back.Say you're sorry.Quit.Don't Quit.Open your eyes.

The longer you wait the more dust you will have to shake...shake...shake out of your system.

This is for the three year old girl that has let go of her balloon, and will regret it for the rest of the day.

This is for the people that want to give up. Don't.
You will regret it even more than the balloon.
This is for you.
Shake. The. Dust. 
 

Gandhi

I keep forgetting to write my blog posts..
These small tasks hide in the cobwebs of my mind
I keep forgetting to remember
An idea cannot grow in a dusty attic
An idea does not belong in the box of memories that aren't remembered
When will we own ourselves completely?
When may I recall my own thoughts back where they belong?
When may I have the ability to sort them through...
Ideas will grow...or will be carried up the creaky wooden stairs to be forgotten
So I open up my laptop and let the bright screen burn my tired eyes
I promise myself this will be the end of my procrastination
But tonight is not the last time I'll see the light...