i was always working steady,

but it left an ugly mark.

it was vicious –

trouble from the start,

so ya could say –

this is where i found my compass,

and all of my writing charts.

time after time,

i worked it as a slave –

cuz at that time –

it was slave meeting slave.

it’s how i found art,

and wish i saw it coming,

long before saddling up on a forklift.

it can be quite the prison,

to find out what a soul

really means to undying sparks

to find out what a soul really means

when not engaged in the right place.

so i’m enjoying my new ride –

meaning the writing ride,

even if it means

to sing like a meadowlark.

so i guess it’s all that matters,

even if the mist of summer kisses are denied,

as i hold out a hand

lookin for a little trouble.

it’s that little twist

of a swan song that makes life

like a long lost beggar.

who say i can’t blend things

on mutual fronts

in what happens to the heart


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