We each play the game of life, Reality, this shared delusion - By our own rules. We come by these rules, By our own process
By @choosethesmiles5 years ago in Poets
Old stuff coming up, Violently, sometimes - Repressed into fermented ick Clogging sinuses And thoughts. Lean into the clearing,
Uncertain future, But isn’t it always? Hurtling through space, And all that. Wizard minister, In this body - Using strength
What would a world look like that nourished joy? What would small talk be like? What would the headlines in the newspapers read? What would the tabloids write about? Would anyone read them?
Dear Humans: There is a microbe on your left foot that I’ve named Bob. Bob is smaller than your current state of perception will allow you to see, but Bob is actually there.
And, she exhaled. The tension, the sorrow, the grief. She exhaled. Not because they deserved it, not because they, anything.
As the world crumbles, The shrill sobs of despair, Of suffering souls, Etched in our ears. Do we watch? Studying the swirling around the drain that never flushes,
Sitting here, Watching, Feeling the harshness of reality - Letting grief bubble up To be cleared, Wanting adult words to
Break me open, then, she said. If there is no other way to unlock the next achievement - Then, break me open. Let love spill into my guts and through my finger tips,
