to sit outside myself and appreciate this moment in life.
Like a trodden nest my impatience overflows
with a thousand frustrated rants.
It is like I have been given the gift to paint but no one told me that I could never have a fresh canvas again…I am never able to clean my brushes and I will have to create forever.
My bones are feeling their history
and today I am not intrigued by life.
I feel as though this work of art will reflect on me, endlessly,
Maybe I just need a cup of tea?
I asked for that profile but I get this in return.
I made my own bed but it was not mine I would learn.
Zen…Zennnnnnn, say it again.
Poisoned from the outside in.
Broken butterfly wings.
I hate unicorns…and any representation of a rainbow. You know?
If only I could lay in solitude. Would you mind leaving? Am I being rude?
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Shifting my focus just long enough to let the anger subside, slowing it’s stride and subtracted not multiplied. Just before I cried.
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