Shopping...followed by short bursts of creativity

Lots and Lots of Christmas shopping.  I feel kind of like Santa. 
What a great job he has--distributing toys to kids, getting paid with milk and cookies.  Why can't "Santa Clause" be a major?  What am I going to school for?  Well, I'm majoring in Santa Clause and minoring in Toymaking. 
I love wrapping presents too.  My wrapping is ATROCIOUS.  I've never quite mastered the art of tying ribbons without a helper, and scissors are a challenge as well.  Nevertheless, masking gifts with pretty paper and bows is somehow so rewarding.

Like my shades?  So hipsterrrr

Anywhooooo shopping was a great success today.  My mom and I went to Beachwood Place Mall, as well as all the major "Big Box" stores, finding almost everything on our list, and some...except socks for my grandma.  Oops...I think it's an automatic expulsion from the Santa Program for revealing Christmas presents online.  Oh well, my grandma doesn't know how to use the internet, so if you don't tell her, I won't.
After a long day of shopping, upon arriving at home, I was struck with a sudden urge to do something creative.  SHAKESPEARE.  No, I didn't re-enact my favorite scenes from my favorite plays--I'm not that much of a lit nerd -__- .....okay maybe I am, but that's still not what I did.  I ripped out two pages from an extra copy of  King Lear I had lying around, added some watercolors, and VOILA! A masterpiece.  But that's not all--I'm quite accomplished at modern art as well.  I know it looks like it only took five seconds to make, but you are wrong, my friends, it only took two seconds.

"Shakespeare Artwork"

Since I have problems with doing what I'm supposed to do when I have creative urges (write my book...) here is a random short rambling of mine:

My take on Modern Art

"She just concentrated on breathing.  She pictured the air swirling in her lungs; she pictured snow, leaves, swirling in the wind.  'It is a sunny day,' she told herself.  Why was it so easy to lie?  It seemed to her that it was easiest of all to lie to yourself. 
'I will not die,' she told herself.
It was almost a prayer, but she did not believe in God.  So she said it to herself, to the world.  Words were her god. 
'I will not die.'  A whisper.  Words had more power when spoken out loud, even if, so arranged, they formed a lie. 
'I will not die,' she breathed.  Snow, leaves in the wind. 
It was a sunny day, the day she died. 
So sunny, so bright, it was as if she hadn't died at all." 
I don't really know what it means--but that's how my writing usually is.  Its therapeutic for me, even if it means nothing, or means everything, or means something I can only understand by not understanding.  Yay for post-modernism.
And here's a poem, inspired by my experiences with the hardships of life, both mine and others.

Pain
Makes Poetry and
Prayer.
It makes me
Cry,
Like a child
And sing,
Like a harp off pitch. 

Can you see the Scars
And Fears
Inside of me?
Can you tell that it is hard
For me
To Breathe?

Yes, Pain
Makes Poetry and
Prayer;
Like the words will somehow
Save me. 

On that cheery note, I bid you adieu! Till later, peeps.