The idylic bliss
that only comes
from leaves
gladly cruching underfoot
and nature
in all its finery
beads of water
drip down from moss draped rocks
and above them all
stands an indian paintbrush
for the woods are my Home
and where I find
meditative tranquilty
in the midst of my chaotic thought
Man, I am sick of all my shit sucking this past month
I'm so creatively dead, everythings become a rehashing of the old with some new thought in it. Maybe I need to do acid again. It sure stopped my poems from sucking in 2007 and inspired me to keep up this blog.
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