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The genie inside the bowl
told me of his lowest day eighteen fortnights ago.
The day he did not feel like a genie.
He awoke yet his eyes cried for the return of rest.
The one wish he could not concede
plagued his mind.
He did not know
how. He could not bend
the rules of time
to fulfill's the most human
desire which is to wish
to never have to wish
that the present day
was not a bad day.

Like the transaction
between a poker dealer
and the man with no fear
in his eyes,
we barter with life on a cyclical game of poker.
Sometimes the house wins,
and it hurts like a thumb tacker.
A pair 2s is so inconsequential against
as fate doing its thing.
No genie can stand in the way
of life happening.

The genie in the bowl
told me to make the most of this low day
happening, go on a stroll,
to take care of myself
and recognize that today is just a bad day.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better,
in the meantime get some sleep
and to try again tomorrow.
The genie in the bowl did give me a wish. Now I know how to recognize a bad day.
Not a literal genie.
Heart races and
my chambers expand. Eternal
drumming of my life.
It slips my mind how sometimes
the beating of time gets
me
into
flow.

And I breathe, aware of my sensations,
a connoisseur of myself. Los Pensamientos
son uno, and I can become the
version of myself I aspire to be.
practicing introspection
Your morning devil
smile, painting's
bottled message, coffee
on your lips. Hormones
everywhere and I freeze.

The mental image
sends my heat index on the
rise. Locked lips
in a chant pull me to the
pier of my chasm. I fall.
Her body language
flirts, her smile reckons me.
****, she’s what I need.
quick one before my meeting
This summer, I peeked
under my bed
and dusted off the ghosts
of the past.
I took them out in the sun
and hung them out to dry.

Surprised the stench leaked
this far into my living. And instead
of looking under my skin,
I pondered on how long this blunt would last.
Burned my fingers
and scorched my shirt pocket fry.

During my coma,
I ran the halls of the sky.
Shirtless against the precipitation of life,
I came upon clouds
that were puffy and white,
black and charged,
and gray with strife.
nothing is purely white, nor purely black
but a shade a gray that you must unpack

work in progress. always open to feedback
  Aug 15 Espresso manic
David J
I wonder to whom I journal
Because when I write
It is always a
conversation
Be thankful for your notebooks service!
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