In this garden of deliberation and sadden souls, I will lie here to offer you complete honey like bliss and happiness. I will crochet my lips with pure elegance, become a beautiful phenomenon. The kind where rain falls in one spot and I will become a fire whirl.
I do not write the best poetry, nor is it ever happy, but I will bathe myself in the purest of fruits from your mothers garden to write how wonderful it tastes on the tip of my tongue and craze myself in drunken hours so you can have something to read. If an unfinished painting is still considered art and a writer is still considered a poet after a lifelong of writer's block, then I have a few words.
I like to listen to dead people speak of philosophy and Alan Watts asked me what I would do if money was no option. What more would I desire if they say that when you're in love that it's everything you've ever wanted? I thought I was going crazy when my clouded mind delineated fleeing to Amsterdam; various records playing, lake rides, traffic, lovers kissing and laughter filling the air. I could have almost smelled the aroma of marijuana, bakeries, and cafe shops. We would walk the streets of peoples hard lived secrets but my hand was not holding yours, in fact, it was not holding anything. I turned upside down as my feet were connected to the town of where I longed to be.
I was back at our hotel, my lover was by my side and the clock was ticking louder than usual. It hit me.
You could say that I was a broken loss, a wanderer, but I did not ever waste my time. I ran away, not with you this time often enough- yet, which way is home if you're not ever still to feel safe?
My words are mine, and not for you no longer.
