We are clowns dying of hunger because the cake in front of us isn’t the broccoli we expected (and don’t even like, but still think we deserve).
Sometimes we are afraid to sit still as if it would kill us, when in fact, it is the only way we can be painted.
Silence is the loudest song, shouted in in empty rooms and outer space.
It’s not the mystery, but it is mysterious.
It is leather skinned scaled and skyscraper air.
It is an audiobook and slam poet musk from a story well told.
It is it.
It is now.
It is a ring finger adorned and the promise of a high school sweetheart’s touch. It hurts to write about, hurts less to type about.
It waits until it is done waiting.
Sometimes the point is so simple it trips over our complex feet.