There was this story of this girl I wrote over and over. Her story kept beginning and kept ending and I kept finding myself in the middle trying to see if I could see her in any place other than the side of my mind. She had a spherical soul and she dreamy her life away. 

And then maybe someone could see my life glowing with meaning for a moment. 

Today I’ll start to write my little scraps and my huge monstrosities of things I hold tightly on the meaning string. And I’ll start letting them touch themselves and try to blend like gasps of blue and green.

Today its just a chunking, hunking gulp of little poetic efforts towards the poetry we are. 

She was a little green queen sitting on a sitting stoop step. She was staring at the moon and looking through a cathedral scope just to see the edge of Europe gulping in the movement of the clouds. She was resenting history for taking something from her she wanted to know. She was a wanderer down long hallways of storybook voices. She was me and she and forgetting to look where she left herself off and let herself down. She was a rising flash of a gash in the sunset’s eye. She was lost effortlessly and semi-permanently in a freshly baked forever. She was a silent flow inside a ready-made memoir of the world’s old memory box. 

And then came majesty, pulling her own saddle horse sleepy, sloppy drooping with all things she wanted to waste. She was suctioned onto this gargantuan gorilla love and she was dressed so exquisitely in all the words she smothered herself in, fresh perfumed pearls and a gossamer winged dress of gold and glimmers. And she knew nothing of the way Aestetic tripped over the heels of the balancing act of beauty. She just wanted to be wanted by all things that wanted the slender threads of perfection’s blanketing embrace.  

Start dreaming again, it’s ok.


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