They drag me back to the keyboard, a strange sense of loyalty, of promises made, I find piles of old words and realize that they still have the power to move me. What gives?
Perhaps you should let the words take the reins for a while. The pursuit of money isn't getting you anywhere, anyway. Perhaps just be a roaming poet, a silly soul lost to the wind, what harm has ever come to you from daydreaming, that has not been wrought times a hundred by the real world? There was a time when you thought New York City was a magic, and you've let them beat it out of you with a thousand pin pricks, this is not making good on your promises.
May has been gray this year, has been hesitant and middle-aged and bored. But I found a four-leaf clover in the park this morning, avoiding the eyes of the local roaming tramp I looked down to find a small firework from the Universe, what do you make of that?
You have to go looking for treasure to find it.
You have to be ready for madness
for it to enter your heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment