In the deepest darkest night, deeper than death
because the dead, don’t have human cares, I write a story to myself
the plot, plods along
the story, takes twists and turns
I enjoy this time—not just to tell a story
but because, I love, spending time, in my own mind
when I can soak in it, like a hot tub, of words
the only light in my warm room, is the bright computer light
it’s a womb
Being born into this real story of bad ideas
that batter and bludgeon
my sacred space
is not my choice
it’s the rain,
that I walk-in
it’s the rainbow
that offers hope
it’s the beautiful stormy sky
that threatens to strike me dead
We are ready to exit this life,
but we don’t know what to do with it.
If someone tells us what to do,
we wonder if it’s true.
Thinking, is the great divide,
from the voices that won’t allow us to hear our own minds
Thinking, is dangerous
because of our dark universe
People like People who are like them
People like People who like them
I don’t like People
and they don’t like me
we think differently
Thoughts show up on my face
I like people who smile at me, like they really like me.
My favorite aunt died today. She died in her sleep at 90.
The worst part about this world is that it’s impersonal.
People aren’t hurt by physical pain,
but by being treated, like they aren’t people.
The impersonal nature of nature,
that doesn’t care, is worse than death.
I enjoy thinking… I can do it anywhere.
There are no prisons. There is no death; only the death of thought.