Why I need a cuddle

Every time I am feeling bad, I need a cuddle.

I am sorry that I glared at you in the checkout. I needed a cuddle.

I am sorry that I yelled at you for not paying attention. I needed a cuddle.

I am sorry that I didn’t offer you the world today,

I needed a cuddle.

I am sick.

I needed to release.

Tears on your sweater, let me collapse on your heart.

Cry into fetal position,

let them see you beneath the tears, shed your fears~

Why did I not just ask?

Because I did not know.

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There are a Million

Despite the number of stars in the sky,

the grains of sand on the beach,

bilocation, synchronicity,

superposition,

the feeling of Truth,

there are a million~

a million, incomprehensible to someone like me,

a million possibilities,

of what now could be,

you are where you are.

Can you look around?

Describe the quality.

An empty plate with an ooze of peanut butter,

piles of books and a dirty old speaker,

a couch with a fuzzy blanket~

patches of light adorning half,

messiness reflecting back the

assurance that you have lived,

a face full of concentration or a smile,

psychic energy infused spaces~

merely to ask,

what is your relationship

with yourself?

I’m feeling fine,

finally getting mine,

being fed,

going to bed tired,

waking up when I want,

smoking on the front porch,

wild deer munch below,

wild deer hunch below,

squat low-low.

A million different possibilities,

where do your dreams and reality

overlap?

Do you feel closer each day?

Does your truth take form

as you fall away?

Door blowing open~

the dream of a summer

love~

Late sunsets,

an eastern breeze,

birds in the trees,

eagles flying high,

picnic in the park,

babies learning how to walk-

on an open beach,

water within reach,

trees touching the sky-

dirty, dirty feet,

minimal clothing,

beating the heat,

finally,

a breath of fresh air.

I am a tree,

pouring into me,

from down below,

I am rooted in the hollow

earth, pussy fed,

tingling with delight

between my legs.

The connection

in my dreams-

freshly pollinated

leaves.

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25.0

Once upon a time~

a little girl was upset.

She found out there were

people paying for sentiment,

so she took it upon herself

to offer friends her gratitude

with

imagination.

She has not stopped writing since.

From fairy tales to journals to short stories to

poetry to short stories to lyrics

to poetry, to poetry, to poetry,

to note-taking, to note-taking,

to journals and note-taking,

to thoughts and ideas and

journals and poetry

and note-taking.

When is she a writer?

When will she be

officiated, ordained?

This is the seed growing,

for this is the crux of it all.

The magic, nay,

the hidden secret. Could

it possibly be, can’t you see,

it is her that decides?

And it comes deeper,

with the deeper truths

explored. For what

is the core

but what’s been before?

And it is you that must agree,

you see,

for neuroses to flee,

but don’t despair, for she

partakes in the ever-growing

face of potentiality, in which

nobody can decide but she.

And once decided,

she is a force of

determination, a storm

perhaps, a voice

calling from the centermost

point of the universe,

Will incarnate,

Better in flux~

the Happening.

She is a writer~

always will be, possibly,

but this is not all,

just merely a scratch,

for that cannot be all,

each speaker needs

a mouthpiece.

But electricity!

The source of me,

transformative energy,

comes from Her,

courses up and out,

pussy-synthesize,

pre-dominantly wet between my thighs,

bursting forth, she sees,

“Eternity

speaks through me,

so how I can be wrong?

Why not sing my song?

and laugh and cry

mesmerized all the while.

Nothing is as sturdy

as a life built on dreams”.

Or so it seems,

and so it goes,

in the depths and the hollows,

she follows

the darkness

with her knife

and her fortune,

on the warrior’s mission:

Visita interiora Terrae rectificando invenfies Occultum Lapidem.

So she dives back into the process,

regeneration,

take a bit of this,

some of that,

and integrate it,

unification,

she slips

like a serpent

in the sand of a desert,

back and forth,

and around,

up and down,

round and

round and

round she goes.

Where she

stops,

nobody

knows.

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