To the top of the peak standing in military garb waiting for my ruca. Sunglasses selfie in the snow with the sun shining, streaming so brightly. I am counting stars and wishing on lemondrops. That sweettartness, addictive flavor that I turn away from and come back every time. Too much of a good thing. Yesterday, built to overcast clouds in the sky. Birds soar and have no anxiety, no hesitation, no trepidation. Ice pick, ice fishing, chisel in and chisel out. Making use of the tools and resources this planet has provided for us. Lately I am a window into my own soul. Heart like horse breaking to get out of the gate. Charts on a market graph, nowhere to go but up. Scary nonsensical boardroom meeting dream where I'm in my underwear, underdressed. Sycamore tree that could tell you its full story. Baseline basketball dribble, the squeak and patter of sneakered footsteps on the court. Wasted days, a lullaby whimsy. Star on top of the Christmas tree. It is green, evergreen with lights and garland and glasses of gin being passed around at night, all singing some Christmas Eve carol even if we don't know the words, even if it is one of our own making. Cups of cheer and Santa red rosy cheeks. Deliberate jovial behavior that we shouldn't be spoiled from. Should never take for granted. Marmalade Sunday stretching into toasted-laden Tuesday. Buttered rolls are so comforting at a time like this. It is time to jump off the diving board headfirst and see what the bottom's all about. Pelvis-tuck and barrel roll into night sky. Going up to heaven now. To the top, to the apex. SWMRS and that feeling of what it felt like to be 14. Speaking nicely to my younger self who is a ticking emotional timebomb. Late-night winnebago blackout. Rage like Ghastly or Gengar or any other Pokemon names I can't seem to remember. Second-base storyline. Scattered emotional daydream. Powdered wigs in 2020. You are old and old-fashioned and there are cobwebs hanging from hair and neck. You wrinkles are crevices, cut deep and preserved by morticians who have also gone after your passing. Take note and heed this warning. Miss Havisham and her green wedding cake, stuck inside some crusty non-reality crying to peeling wallpaper.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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