Up by 4am and convinced myself to watch a little TV,
My sleepytime show I don’t visit much.
Within the pervasive of privacy, and all my little secrets and lil jokes
And major friends and family i miss and the ones I love –
I’ve been telling the whole world of endurance.
Breathing life in cute little interest.
I’ve found much camaraderie.
Not really an internet peruser or deep-click marathons of video
Explanations to tell me my own work and confuse
The mind of the creativity that fear chokes like chains
And I’m town the pestilence and I’m the one that must own
Up to secret lifes and I am only but the can on clearance sale.
I made those too and shared recipes that could be changed and quick.
My self-worth withers and plows like snow waiting for a glacier to give me stability.
Put it on ice, leave the table.
Only to find I’ve trailing uphill like a mountain in the piedmont.
There’s many valleys across all mountains.
The whispers of the curttails of wind chasing me,
Inspiring the next second.
But in my comfort;
I truly know.
There’s always another one to hold my secret. My share. My dream.
The Good Idea Book.
Then suddenly.
It pops around after not much time.
You’ve kept my sound.
Even while I was Quiet, not Silent.
Mute doesn’t mean the TV still isn’t on.
It means I’ve focused creating what’s new and profound to me.
Antique wastes and retro vibes and vintage digs that were just old digs of mine –
All-the-same. Regardless of the taste or price.
I love to create. I love my new little inventions.
Whether they get ditched or the batteries amp or quick or sits in shelter stoffen into whatever back of closet.
A little treasure and I don’t have to sail the world to keep the heritage or tact or mine, as well.
As contradictory and the “bad influence” I have parlayed to many a parents, elders, and peers.
It can’t be that bad.
The work that is important to you and helped you grow –
Well ultimately, you saw me for me.
I only work in the verse of Non-fiction.
My truth is no secret of some sorts.
I’m not gonna hand it to you as I learn myown and quick-wits are only pits for me to spit out
Like cherry stems.
I used to braid those with sweetgrass and lawnclippings and cattail foam to make it thicker and pad whatever scratchiness that seemed to be the allergen it takes to get
Natural. In Your Work.
People are meant to adapt and change. I feel sorry for those who haven’t wrapped up their childhood or an Era and Eras are of Eons.
Have I been the Misunderstood Animal? Who knows.
I only rock on Cloud-side 9-5.
In there, there’s a lot of Peace.
petrichor - archive 