This world is filled with illusions. Not the good ones. Not the ones found on acid trips. Or, mushroom highs. We are a society that provides too many ways in which to dislike yourself.
That is until the ‘real’ people take a stand!
cool dampness fills the air…
attended by a lack of dreams…
a lack of care.
misogyny has shut the lights off to a tiny world.
these are the days, no one will want to remember.
lone docks, lone chairs…
baskets of all types…
with their own kind of despair.
have i been, kind today?
have i not judged?
my own private nudge!
minus the semantics.
a lone dock…
a lone chair…
a ticket holder at the bigoted fair.
He had never been an intended farmer
And, perhaps, Mr. Frost knew he never would be
Unintentionally up in the notches…working the land with hands calloused by tragedy
Cursed tractors, sullen cows, an unconditional hell’s paradise
Baskets of discoveries…In one’s own unmade garden
Trained to farm the land…Once gone…
I had no intention of going back.
Searching the pavement for creativity
poking about the neon
digging in dollar signs and dimes for deliberate self-discovery
The writings on the wall were slipping away into graffiti
So, maybe Mr. Frost had been an intended farmer, after all
His seeds of thought burning a hole in my pocket
His travels into struggle…
Left open for me green fields of self-discovery
Ill constructed are the flowers…and, often prose.
An angst cloaks the dirt from my shivered window.
No comfort found when gazing from them…with bows in my hair.
How simple it would have been?
To glance about…upon this, a shaded afternoon.
Perhaps,even with a lightness that could promise pastels to a possible passerby.
Intrinsically, this soft hue, always falls short of my fingertips.
And, does not reflect my mind.
But in my hand…
big and bold, black and white, green and tan.
Impressed upon me…the water and color…for my land.
Hues for both woman and man.
love each other like you are the lyric and they are the music
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