A Poem fart jumps out of my pen,
fumes putrid to some but butterly prints to others
A world scoured with pain as I rummage through the internet
hoping to capture a modicum of warm cozy news.
Poker in an electronic hand held box shields me from the worst of what society plans to tattoo on my brain.
Financial markets swing back and forth, one day impending doom, the next day a cataclysmic orgasm.
Every last member of society seems to be blind to the country’s fresh and new skin being born under society’s enormous nasty scab.
I’m protected by my own little dream bubble that somehow allows me to spend most days exactly as I want. Minus in-person interactions and excursions with various humanoids I adore.
My immediate family gets more of me physically but not as much mentally. I guess these are the inevitable chains of a philosophical brain volcano.
Thoughts continuously erupting, small embers of the past and fiery ideas of the future. The best and worst of emotions under control by the wonders of modern day pharmacology.
Oh how I long to get back on the meditation train, so I can revolve around on the circular track of the present moment.