Those who stop, start again
they stop, and start, and quit, and despair, or find some fantasy that makes them not care
the builders, keep building, like the tower of babel
confused by speech, they work with their hands.
Nobody can make you quit, but yourself.
If you tell your dream to people, they will try to kill it
they are hunters of the dream, because they don’t have one to chase.
It’s easier to break things, like broken bottles under a bridge
their words are like your neighbor
who runs-over your cat
flat, scraped off the driveway with a shovel
but still flat.
The Dream is Dead.
Now, I sit in my room and write.
Recently, I broke-out of my routine
visiting a bookstore, where I don’t normally go
it was a warehouse without soul
A routine is a treasure
among the dirt-heaps of humanity.
This principle is true for: women, work, friends
and cities, where I might live.
I need to pick fruit, that keep my juices flowing
I spend time in the company of strangers
so I can appreciate my own.
I visit death
but I don’t stay for drinks.