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They take me a fool
because of my morals compass.
And still I fear their paths.
I don’t need to search any further to know the cosmic math!
I use to pretend that all was real, I’ve taken my spin on the karmic wheel.
Comfortably the wheel has slowed and now my heart beats strong with all I know.
With all I’ve learned but not enough, I gather my strength when life gets rough.
See through my eyes, open your mind, dig a little deeper in this spiritual rhyme..
Traveler 🧳 Tim
she always posted my bail and
never asked what I d done
and she paid the back rent
twice
always had dinner for me

she loaned me money
and I never paid her back

and when I was gone

for 2 or 3 days
she didn't ask where I'd been

she broke my nose
with a non-stick frying pan

she broke my heart with a letter

she s the best I ever had

Honey,
if you read this:
i'm in the county jail,
call the bail bonds man
I need you more than ever

YOUR THE BEST I EVER HAD!
life is like
when you're
a little kid
and you
discover that
there is more
than twenty-four
crayons in the box
that there is
the possibility
of forty-eight colors
of sixty-four
of one-hundred and twenty
that there are
so many shades
of love and anger and peace and despair
and absolute bliss
and the ability
to express them all
are now
in the palm
of your hand

life is
colorful
beautiful
thought-provoking
lovely
soulful
heartbreak­ing
inspiring
and absolutely wonderful

every day is
a new sunrise
a new chance
to transform into
the butterfly you
want to be

go out there
and change the world, kid
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
I know I keep leaving
Never known how to stay in one place
I am hard to love with a gypsy soul
 Oct 2021 Mica Light Poetry
Crow
we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections
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