EdgesEdgesEdges
Bouncing around the edges of life I glance around at the formations Of other edges made by others Whether blunt or sharp are all edges.
The sharp edges, enemies, deaths, The blunt edges, pockets of serenity Those peculiar shaped ones formed By parties in history are all different.
All different as are our paths Among them maybe loving the Soft bunt of a quiet night or Wishing for a spike of surprise.
But as we bounce we must all Move on never staying impaled On what we think might be the Sharpest edge.
Thoughts From SolitudeThoughts from SolitudeThoughts From Solitude
A blank cartoon bubble becomes filled with yellow polka dotted zebras. Life. The second song, like a red flannel shirt: best when worn.
The smell of fresh cut grass after listening to the thud of rain against the cabin roof. Such idea clashes with that of a lonely tree; completely in solitude from the surrounding field.
All of these ideas become earthy feelings. Earthy feelings that dance to the background music. Make your own music. Lean your face on your fist and imagine. Watch the pine tree grow.
Eons of io
OblivionOblivionOblivion
It’s not just the solitude. Perhaps it’s the silence of the crickets or the punching bag that spills its beans. No. It’s the quietness of the bubbling brook. It is, after all, supposed to be bubbling.
The disappearing locked door won’t open. I guess I’ll just have to wait for it to disappear to walk through. A furry rat runs through a hall. A burly, fat cat chases it up the stairs. But there are no stairs. They too, have disappeared.
The reminiscence of his life is too short. He had his 15 minutes of fame. There is no more to tell about
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That bag of money was like a baby to me. Except it was made of gold instead of useless baby meat.
- Sabre
Now that all the pleasantries are outta the way, if you have any probs or need to ask anything, feel free to ask.
Keep writing that abstract poetry.
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Sleeping is an art. That's why I'm going to sleep now. Oops, I meant meditation.
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