Back of the mind

At the end of day, little warrior, please be mindful that it is not about them. It is all about you. How you value things or rather to be clear , how you abstain from speaking anything ill at all, too loud about them.

I am often an open mouth listener. My former husband once commented that I seem to represent those black girls, listening to music all day long, and quite an open mouth listener of my own TV. I was sad, as I still feel the same with most of his words, but I am getting a stubborn resilience about that null mirage of fear. These days I hardly see a mirror, any mirror at all. My own reflection on the opposite side of the mirror, feels like a stranger oncoming traffic. I hardly know her. She is a seductive tool for ongoing reasons to lull about anything possible in the course of the happening of a second marriage. But she hardly does any direct good to me. She utters verbs, where I will be the negotiator of the place poem. A hard nut riddle for cats and dogs incessant rain.

And I do supplicate for you. Anything that is possible in this nagging world, broken apart, whittled down to a one liner ingredient in a nightfall on the city downtown.

Aroma of the last grain. Aroma of soil to cause ablution. To look inward. We are teardrops of our estranged lids of silent stew, cooking us in, never knowing beforehand that we got them too.

Almost.

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