The saddle wears of it’s self
I am not alive,
Not living,
Gross existence
In a murdered pot of coffee
What does it matter what I write,
As long as I get it out?
A free mind
Is a clean mind.
Free from waste,
Forest with a clearing.
Able to see the distance
Eyes open and fully aware
I am this
Of what I am now
A being of what
Many perceive me to be.
The window shopper
And the midnight gazer
Telescopic lense invader
Zoooms
And pins me down
Pressed in a pertidish
Examined by idiots
Pinched in negative
It’s a canned reality
Trapped in your likeness
You’re the broken,
The sad individual.
The dealer of robbed souls
The hurtful mentor
With pain control
I know you,
Fundamentalist cheese.
Seeds of the wicked
From the soil brings green
It’s an accomplishment,
A slap on the back
And I high five manicure.
He cleans up rather well.
Goodnight,
Or should I say, good morning...
...It’s an awakening.