Photo by Mahkeo on Unsplash

Finding a stinging sense to motivate.

Spit my juice on the ground.
Walk with a jump, a limp
-the gait of a rabbit-
foxes a chasing,
making snide terse sound.

What is with the wind
-blows the same grows stale-
nothing too everything stinks
with no opposed habit.

See the nymphs playing,
horning the satyrs,
booming they noise,
aspiring will be noticed,
jerk and wine sink into abyss when it matters.

Wind origin same — blows down highest mount
rising smiles with dirty bile,
legs of the lotus.

Searching pixies play their pump,
erotic sweat break eyes asunder dreaming bliss in pain,
thousand dots provide facade;
What is to dump?

Misdirected wind about
-blows stench from every corner-
unsettled current howling, snaking, drizzling blind,
the same.

Scratch feel feral instinct,
waterfalls do plentifully pour.
Sting their receiver, burn trow patterns stuck.

Spring grasses smelled of burnt freshness all about.

What is with wind
-blows the same grows stale-
caught wreaking sits alone;
someone must cull the bilge and pluck.

About finding a way out of complacency and monotony. The obstacles, temptations, and worries stand in all our paths. Overcome them with a razor. Cutting out the rot and going beyond comfort may be painful but necessary. Embrace change and move with it.

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store