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There is little to distinguish blinks from winks I try, I do because across the room little things can mean sweeter secrets than
text can testify. It's beauteous not knowing everything or anything,
really, so why the heap of pretending not to mention, furtive
mending of popped seams and deflated dreams ringing ears and silent
screams? Last time I checked the whine of rubber bones creaking
through days bending to the will of my worries, scurrying in crevices
of this mental maze, I sat for months and prayed to imagination, a
fictitious fabrication that tore my feet from the dirt in liberating
solicitation. I spend seconds in creation cosmos behind my eyelids, worlds of honey smoke and little kids where there's more green than
gray, my jeans are frayed, and I can stick my toes in the sand every
day. Hills are for rolling down, laughing, heads are for
scratching, beds weren't meant to be made, and socks are for mixing
and matching. Expect nothing! Put your hands in the dirt and grow
something: May it be green, teal, aquamarine... or lay on your back
and scream and when you're spent, lie silent and remember: it's all
just a dream.
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