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 […]
What a pretty little bird! With a pretty little song to match?
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Very pretty. A heart stealer.
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My kind of bird!
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Lovely!
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Thanks
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Warblers are hard. And I can’t even spot them a lot of the time.
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I know. Me too. But I discovered that they are curious, so if you make a phish, phish sound and wait, they’ll come investigate. Sometimes….
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Sweet!!
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😊
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