another summer day.
wake, sleep.
wake, sleep.
wake,
wait.
no more sleep.
time to get up for the day.
same pattern.
summer nineteen,
what a shatter.
no friends to enjoy
the day.
well,
ones that are under
a few miles away.
lounge around a few hours.
matching candies in a row
to pass the day time.
four o'clock on the hour,
head out the door for a
night of work in a scatter.
sun shining down,
yet little people around.
sun sets from view,
going straight home is
nothing new.
arrive back home,
switch into more
comfortable clothes.
reading spoken words
for hours.
heart jerking connection
with others,
their words more than
just a splutter.
an emotional tie
that keeps me near
the poetry tide.
now here i sit,
first piece written.
a journal of
thoughts,
or maybe
just a small rhyme
to get by.
whatever the meaning
it keeps me thinking.
-1:39 am-
gears turning.
so many thoughts
still unable to piece
together.
entry sputters
are only just
the mutters.
YOU ARE READING
a poet's journal
Poetrya poet journaling each day or a poet trying to keep rhymes at bay maybe both. -lowercase intended
