Weeding The Fools

Just me and my muse, at play in a field  
of wishful thinking, so I sow my own seeds  
and reap the sweetness of my family.    
You don't know me, a well-worn pen,  
assuming me wrong, in blind eyesight.  
But that's the way I am wary, not a fool.    
Sarcastically, my feet touch the ground  
skipping my own rope. Listening to nature  
with my mind awake. Knowing the echoes  
are only memories of my soul's awakening  
with nature. Not braying the horn of a dethroned  
jackass. I snap my own black eyes peas.