There’s no day I don’t read:
books, posts, threads even memes.
There’s no day I don’t write:
poetry, my oh so
late book, drivel, good stuff.
It’s every day I feed
on you: sometimes swallow,
sometimes spit, never bite.
Most days I’m A-okay,
some days are fucking rough -
mostly that’s when I bleed
me, splashing on the page.
Every day surprises
me, like a boxed gift or
poisonous post: amazed
at hate and unicorns,
astonished I still breathe
in clouds of mustard gas
and purple glittered hope.
Existential angst I
can take, or a truth in
any form, history
or wisdom, art, crazy,
laughter, work, Real…
