A Rumination

The imagination, it’s a hell of a thing

I pitch without a hitch

and sell myself the dream.

Ease is with what I produce a path to letdowns

Let down but it is my fault ultimately

Self-swindled without a flame to be rekindled

This is either all too complex or pathetically simple.

Keep fantasies in the medicine cabinet

Medicine in my gut at all times

Like the mind, I can’t see physically my wants

Disoriented thoughts, yes those –

race and run the gauntlet.

I’m like winter mixed with spring

I like my fruit forbidden

I’m like nothing mixed with something

Stranded, harping hard on how it was to once be driven.

Some would say I’m “tripping”

I am tripping, truly

I was riffing – cruelly

Some would say I’m “tripping”

Me? I have no comment

Precisely, I could not state my intentions.

Loosely, there’s a chance I can speak sharply on my actions.

This is life and opportunities are passing me

They pass me with no waving, I look on like I’m forsaken.

But pity from the self, it has yet to help me

I have optimism somewhere

It’s tough to see

You see, it’s stealthy.

Indeed, someone will always have it worse than you, worse than I

Yet that knowledge is no killer and our hurt survives

What can I do? But spin a new narrative, try a new thing

Hope my next dream is no illusion,

and if I’m wrong – try again
















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