Rumination_Station.4

One million roses of truth, or red for love. I give them all away, with those quaint southern moments of two people connecting.

 

Photography By Holly Boos

One million roses of truth, or red for love.
I give them all away, with those quaint southern moments of two people connecting.
Depressing music to top 40 ears, but gorgeous and righteous to me, and maybe someday you.
Only I understand or can dissect this mayhem
The moments of disheartening past performances when you wish we could change that one reply.
The phone call you can’t make or receive.
You’re hiding behind yourself in the great divide…your high as hell now, while wandering for the touch of simplicity, and soul searching for education that you can’t seem to read about.
They call you troubled, you call it addiction.
They make little notes about you, while you fiddle with your fingers, like a child whose legs can’t touch the ground, sitting in his booster chair.
The door slams in and out.
The wind rushes around while you talk to yourself down ”Greed Street.”
Only sure thing is you standing on your own feet.
Rhythm then blues, and faces traced in red wine.
It drips down your back, it flows, it contributes, its morning, its love.
We have a seed to change the world, but we bury it too deep, therefore we cannot grow.
Same book I have been reading for the last five years.
It sits on ”chapter tears.”
I’m challenged by the kid spitting next to me, but defunct by the scholar teaching me.
Its cold and the north’s winds are colder. These roads spin you like a bottle of our favorite cheap whiskey.
Picture the smirk on my face, as I sit in your own personal lobby; acoustic mind, organic hobby, little hikes, and your body.
I kiss and whisk you away, in the future where we lay; together until we judge each other.
With the cool breeze and the fall effects, I hope to see you before and after I become a nervous wreck.

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