to monetize his syllables he chose to denigrate, which then brought clicks and comments and a cause to celebrate -- and me, I couldn't blame him, as I watched his site blow up, for angry people need their fix of everything but love
I meant to be someone else, but I forgot, and turned, well, into this; I meant to be somewhere else, but I got lost, and fell into this bliss I meant to be miserable, but then my life got happy, seemingly, without my really doing much, overtly, or even secretly
for her, there were his hands...
Back then, I thought I knew about the joy inside - where it was kept - but soon, I entered into doubt, and trudged along, and finally slept beside the waters of my fear, then dreaming: seeing fresh, anew within my reach was all it took, for I was really me with you
follow me over the motley rock, where the cattle sing and the bluebirds low, follow me out past the hidden loch, where geese and the gosling loves to go follow me out to perspective ridge, where we aim to go, but have rarely been; where we see that connection is everything, and that some, once … Continue reading "perspective ridge"
a bridge too near a n'er-do-well a royal flush a spotted tell a fortune lost a habit gained a too-close bridge for the unrestrained
words that just come out a stammer, in an unassuming town; passion doesn't equal glamor, when the girl's more than her gown -- sometimes boys believe and follow, sometimes children see the way -- words and gestures can have glory, luster shown in disarray
clapboard blue and bushes wild, saving face and loving smile, half a home, and home for having present passed, and past surpassing joy, the love of knowing something; breathing slowly, heartbeat jumping, hand to chest and eye to eyeball: challenge none, but yet defy all
since he was eight years old, he longed to run away; to live another life, to find another way he got away, then, years ago, but has found out too late that running doesn't matter when you can't stop being eight