I can’t believe the cankerWho thought he was an anchorOn the woman that he marriedWho had not ever tarried.I wish that he was foolin’Someone should overrule him.The facts won’t ever suit him.He’ll bring us all to ruin.
I used to drink such garbage.Now I don’t drink crapLike Diet Dr. Pepper.Cause I ain’t down with that.I’d rather fill my bellyWith something good for me.Like mineral waterOr perhaps herbal tea.
I have a thousand blessingsAnd that’s probably low.So much to be so grateful for.I’m living with the flowOf showing gratitude for thingsWhich only brings me moreWondérful things to be grateful forA special spiral, sure.
First blossoms of flowersAre nature’s initial blessing.The crocus poking up through snowAre more than window dressing.They’re the harbinger of SpringWhen all begins anew.It’s April when it happens.Old calendars were true.
I’m a little hermitIn Make Believe named Kermit.I wonder to and fro when myMiss Piggy’s not around.I left my wife in Reno.She’s down at the casino.And freedom never felt so goodNow confidence’s been found.
Rocks are conscious too.That might sound strange to you.But, me? I use their energy.It’s what you’re s’posed to do.You can do this too.It’s quite easy to do.Just look up certain chakras—rocks willOpen them for you.
Invasive species everywhere!Humans on the prowl.It’s like they exist everywhereAnd probably always have.I wish that this apocalypseThe ancients said would comeWould show up expeditiously.I’m starting to grow numb.
A tubby little bearIn a tiny little chairTold me terrifying tales‘Bout a man who chased a whale.“It’s an allegory, see?”I tended to agree.That’s how I read the story of theFisherman’s quarry.
I wrote this on Twitter and then thought, “This is too good for Twitter,” so it’s yours now. Freud was a fraud.Now don’t it seem oddThat Carl Jung befriended him,Then sort of ended him?
Sir Cumference had an umbrageWith his eternal soul.Miss Interpreted, could work with itAnd then he lost control.And gave it all to livin’His wildest ever dreams.And you can do this too.As hard as it may seem.
My soul reads all my poetry.They think that I’m elite.But that just shows self-confidence.For I am at Their feet.And They control this vehicle—This bag of skin and flesh.I’ll let Them take over itAnd try and get some rest.
I used to be a train crash.Now I’m just a wreck.For ever giving into fear,I mean goodness, what the heck?There’s not a thing to fear here.What a total waste of time.What have you to be fearful ofWhen your soul is divine?
I don’t mind run-on sentencesI’ve a run-on sort of life.And pots and pans and sandwichesWill make a happy wife.I love that you are on this littleJourney with this bard.It’s been an awesome ride so farAnd better’s in the cards.
