I am never inspired by things that plant trees in my heart. I can never blend them into the pictures or moments of word worlds that I create.
I like her poetry and his poetry and that photography and those trees. I am moved by that hate group and that sad girl that wants boys to look at her. I have things to say about them. I had things to say about strange choices in Tennessee and about dead bugs underneath chairs.
About the things that own a part of my heart, I can't say a thing about, only to. Like love is too precious to create or too huge for the four silly letters of l, o, v, and e.
A root of no inspiration is disguised under snow on the ground and trips me and I lay letting snow make me a secret too until spring wakes me up and that same tricky root is nudging me to get up and inhale leaves and grass. I must take after my Mother Earth and need a sleeping rest of death from creation in winter. Come on spring, I don't want to sleep anymore.
I like her poetry and his poetry and that photography and those trees. I am moved by that hate group and that sad girl that wants boys to look at her. I have things to say about them. I had things to say about strange choices in Tennessee and about dead bugs underneath chairs.
About the things that own a part of my heart, I can't say a thing about, only to. Like love is too precious to create or too huge for the four silly letters of l, o, v, and e.
A root of no inspiration is disguised under snow on the ground and trips me and I lay letting snow make me a secret too until spring wakes me up and that same tricky root is nudging me to get up and inhale leaves and grass. I must take after my Mother Earth and need a sleeping rest of death from creation in winter. Come on spring, I don't want to sleep anymore.
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