Close up of the green celled membrane, guts,and goji berry flowers: s-sorrow, h-heartbreak, a-ambush, m-muzzled, e-equin

Regret,
fight or flight.

when do we choose to stand our ground or break to the wild winds?

we only have one life so we have to make the choices worth living with,
the decisions that won't haunt us on our deathbed in the hospital 30 or 60 years from now.

shame can suck us dry as a spouse; as well as our life force that drives us which could be dangerous.

weather it be a little white lies, sex with a stranger, or jumping out of a plane.
we have to own that shit.

if we could shrink any smaller that Rick Moranis we would....

syllables i could sink in like a cozy couch with a warm blanket. pollination that could spread in spite of our actions. infectious? you better believe it. coughing just to piss myself and be excused from the room to gather my thoughts and scold my own theories & corrections.reprimanded.

is this our finest hour,...no but it is still ours to do what we see fit. breathing speeds and slows as we count chest expansion and retractions. just a simple sneeze away from loosing our minds.nodding off we'd hope'd they would have given up the fight now,forgotten mistakes, but that just makes me feel worse.
i'm left with I and 2am grows nearer than i'd care for.


this conversation is 100 proof with no chaser,time to cowboy up motherfuckers.
buzzing brought back the past we couldn't outrun.

woven wings were anvils, i'd like the court to recall the October 1982 case "Wile E. Coyote against Acme".

a spell in spite of how it all began; is it how we say "Women" or "Woman".choices cheat us of  the second option,or was it the first? our actions are like kids picking up golf balls over driven past the fence in the woods,a million to choose from; actions make the man or woman.

tawdry as pickle ball taking over the bicycle polo courts. we are god's game of chess, overturned by the kids running circles in the house.my my how the kings,queens,castles,and pawns fly.we never even found all the pieces.i'm sure they're lost in the couch, the air vent blowing cold cold air reminding us of our childhood and where we went all wrong. or maybe it was all right? a cookie and warm glass of cold milk will suffice as consolation prize this day. double dare 2000 re-runs pass through me.

life is a metaphor for getting the fuck out.