Jealous is the Journey

Dug deep in the contrast of maple and mud, life is simply a country lane,

not often remembered, as frost heaves discourage thoughts of beauty.

Repeatedly sullied by abuse and neglect.

Ancient the way…to easier lost than found.

If a traveler does not want for much…they won’t be discouraged..

A dirt road can be a jealous journey when traveled alone.

How self-induced echos offer wicked ways to a lonely destination.

 

Shallow from the Inside

How long has it been…

since I have swallowed my pride…

to look out from the inside.

My own reflection?

                                      Is it true?

Subdue, subdue, subdued.

There are new, old pieces of me I cannot fit together.

No matter the crevice.

No matter the wanting of…somehow, somehow.

Simpler to be always good?

Simpler to be sometimes bad?

Time is Aging

So many shapes, sizes.

Some oblique and detractors.

Some manic from nearing disaster.

Time is aging…rounding off jagged points of view.

Time has become minimal.

Urging my black and white mind with visions basic and new.

Funeral Flowers and Wishing Wells

I used to be much better about catching life, as it falls.

Course…that had been when the world was much…

greener.imageedit_2_9723159749

When I had been much leaner…

and, the tears shed were much cleaner.

Now, as the scenery fades

Funeral Flowers continue to grow.

Never withering.

They do not age.

I used to be much better about catching life, as it fell.

Believing in the wishes…placed within a wishing well.

Parochial School Drop Out

It is not an egregious act.

I am just taller than most.

Forever, looking over the tops of heads.

Now, that I am older…

I chew less on the lies fed.

stupid 2

A straight diet of bigger, bulkier, not better.

‘You could look nicer.  Why don’t you try a prettier shade of blue?

All these questions about…girls…!  Well, they’ll put an end to that in parochial school.’

‘You could be so pretty…’

Plastic confessions by society’s tools.

 

Occasionally, yesterday’s key opens today’s door.

A quick glance in the mirror.

A glance into the past.

A glance at age…reflected in the glass.

 

Father Time had once delivered me to my own evil.

As I wipe away the steamy debris, I see a woman made image.

So, I forge ahead.

Turning a blind eye to man-made deceit.

 

Note to self, there is nothing strange in the mirror.

IT is just me.

Note to self, there is nothing different in the mirror…

IT is me.

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