The mind wonders even if the language doesn’t, you may have made that into inspiration, but it wasn’t. Or was it? I don’t think that I’m the right one to judge it. I just write it, sometimes smudge it, staying up late all night doesn’t appeal to many, does it? But when I’m fighting the good fight, fist clenched tight around my favorite pen’s might, I prespire and sweat drudges through as I rub it. And for some strange reason I love it. I can’t hide from the open page or from God above it. Literally sweating, crying, bleeding, dying on the page, until its released, and then we say goodbye to the bygone age. Move on to the next stage. Level up. Two by eight inch rear view. Enjoy the now clear view, where people can hear you, and get you, and let you be you. I know life’s been rough on you, and its gone through, but you shouldn’t forget to be human too.

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