IfI wereto writeevery dayfor onehundred days,would my soulbe purged ofthis malaise;is it a thingto be dredged,dragged up –twistedand tiedlike tatteredbed sheetsknottedtogether;is therea remedyfor thisscourge;or is thisan inherentrestlessness,a fiery bluespark of eternalangst ignitingpassion – a callto write? (Originally posted February, 2017. Image my own)
Expectations artificialliving in an urban junglelonging for nature’s calm – time moves too swiftlybarely registerlet alone participate We are guests in our ownexpectation’s dysfunctionlicensed for depression a smorgasbord for abuseintentions mislaid,disappointment unavoidable The ego pretends to be openbut she’s an actress off cueplaying out a sentence – condemned to basicspraying to escapethis dystopian malfunction. (Image […]
Very thoughtful 🙂
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😊
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Amen!💛
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😘
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So true.
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😊
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Wise words!
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☺️
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True words, VJ.
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🙏😊
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Thanks!
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VJ, true that. Well said. Perfection is the enemy of the good. Keith
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Oh I like that, Keith. Thanks
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Excellent advice (which I tend to have a hard time following).
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Me too, Liz. 😁
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