I miss writing.
It is like riding a wave.
It gives me the sense that I may be going somewhere.
It calms my ranting mind.
Like turning off bingo machines.
Like exiting the highway.
Like dimming the lights before bed.
My violent wings have spread open.
They knocked berries off vines
And left you, basket in hand, kneeling.
The ripeness disappeared and left a pungent fermentation just beneath your nostril.
Just enough of a scent to spoil your lazy afternoon routine.
Yes, it will be spoiled.
But I did not plant the berries
And they were in my way.
Stop stomping sillouettes
Do not drink nectarine branch oil.
Try to try
Each easy elbow
Greases grassy gasoline.
Low laundry baskets break ailing limbs.
Clean the damn clothes.
My home is filled with faces.
Of people seeking places.
To park their melding hearts.
Their lift my spirit
But often, near it
Are clouds of burried bark... I find my soul surrounded.
I find my neighbors dumbfounded
The clouds are all they see
The dark is surrounding me from what i believe to be
In webs, in shells, in tattered trees.
Beneath the dialated leaves.
Is where my soul must be
So to those new angelic faces
To rake the leaves.
And don't forget to find me underneath.
Is like tiny little strings
To ease the burden of carrying
Which, like bricks
Surround your soul
It is like the wind is at your feet
It is like your tendons are thick tree vines
It is like you really exist
It is like lollipop sunday
Being optomistic is bliss
Being optimistic is like surfing
And I don't want to fall off this wave
Being optimistic is truly being