Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.218.226.136
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Scooter in hand and not quite picking up my heels through the smulchy (not a word) leaves 
I'm just thinking about a room of my own
(an actual one, although the book I have unfinished next to my bed)
I'm happy imagining choosing some intensely patterned yet pleasing on the eye armchair (don't tell the algorithms) and having nonsense items within reach.

I'll definitely read all those books I have intended to read once in that room, I don't think I'd fit the 8 enormous boxes of mixed media craft stuff I own into there though, but I could decant mood boxes and toddle off to create mini masterpieces 

I'll meditate daily and work on my biceps at the same time, somewhat impressively I'll figure out song composition and share something with someone I happen to strike up a conversation with who'll turn out to be someone famous...  Hang on, I'm carried away.

Mostly I'll just sit, responsible for nothing but my own thoughts or lack of them should the mood suit. I'll likely experiment with different varieties of tea, read the Guardian and own the World's best pair of slippers (I like furry boot ones)

The make up mirror I have with all the lighting options will be resituated into my room and I'll (obviously and innately) acquire the skill to upcycle and have a restored 1920s dressing table (I might swap the furry slippers for something more authentic when sitting there)

And if I want to be revived, I'll do a perfectly elegant stretch and feel a sense of calm and alignment with everything I am. 

I'm unhurried, cocooned, creative - I'll put songs on repeat until I'm entranced and of course nothing can harm me. 

It's a shame that the outside world knows all the ways in. That I'm all thought and little action (it's my birthday soon - maybe I'll put 'best slippers in the world' on there). I could finish books and start books. (I love sitting in chairs and sometimes 'try' several if in an historic pub or antique store - I've yet to find the chair that is waiting for me though). I'm losing my track of thoughts... I already have the best cup for my tea (I actually own about 5 tea sets after a phase but it's not one of those) it's a china mug with a 'dandy' lion on. I love him and his flowery mane. He doesn't care what anyone thinks. I've just made decaffeinated Earl Grey (I have previously experimented with all the teas, I know what I like but I like the idea of having so few worries that I'd use my time to sample teas)

And this isn't a poem and I haven't got a sense of myself, other than it's somewhere in a quiet space that is precisely intentional yet wholly on a whim. Where lingering is being productive and nothing is 'too much' because I don't measure nothing by any external standard. 

Dropping out of the space we occupy
For a moment of infinity
Is where Heaven helps us
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required