It's late I want to write I don't want to read nor scry
I don't want to design consumeristic graphics I simply want words to emerge as the Moon from behind clouds illuminating the field while I, as Ruth, glean what's left behind before threshing the miniscule amount into an ephah of poem to carry home ~
What's the point of writing if not being true to self? What's the point of living if traveling in stealth? If the pursuit of wealth is your one & only cause Then the game is over and you've already loss
Lost in the sauce and needing to pause for intermission To reevaluate your secular decisions through reflection Pay me no attention; I'll just preach to the choir Then, with a unified mission, we'll levitate higher
but ironically, it was too much! like building a tiny home ---not enough room for you even less for me with an incredible view outside the window in the scope of what it could be . . . but ultimately, it felt as though we were passing right on through and I was taking readers for a ride in an elevator
This is a fictional situation about an individual who is on the brink of suicide. He holds his (HER) gun to the head, waiting to point their middle finger at the world as they pull the trigger. They are alone. They are in this alone. They do not pull the trigger. They keep the middle finger down. ---still alive---next scene---archie23 Read poems by archie23
ASCENDED AWAKENINGS INEVITABLE RETURN (1:30pm, 3-12-2011, at KOFFI, Palm Springs, California)
once more here i sit alone outside downtown again at this popular beautifully scenic coffee shops outdoor courtyard on yet another near perfect sunny weather warm winter desert day shirt off my back writing tablet in my lap open pen in hand waiting in silence patiently waiting trusting for something new not yet come to come here soon as i know it will in time ...