In home office.  To SELF… concentrating and focused, centered.  My convictions is fiery, centered and placed properly.

Poetry in everything, all this.  Coming back to my objectives, the songs in my head, the calling from past pages.  Old notes in these little notebooks… poems I completely forgot about.

FUCK.  Hate how I did that, still do but I’m stopping it.

Signs brighter, speaking louder, an interview

Echoes, jazz pill and spill, nothing blind 

Only bright sight

Dreams, thinking, thinking in visions not really but maybe

Conversations, silent, or what

Level it, doing snow poems in reflection lesson

Time moves but I don’t watch

Why should I

I have my own time

…..

Day closing.  Putting self in a specific character and mind, the campus isn’t getting back to me, and that’s fine.  I’m not doing that.  I’m not waiting for opportunities, affects my mood too much.  I’m creating my own.

Need a glass of SB, think I’ll go for a walk in a sec….  Need to get outside.  Reading something, not saying what.. but I’m injecting a supreme case of FUCK-IT into my wires.  Like Dad once said, I need to be a different kind of adversary.

And here I am… the opportunistic hoodwinking, entrapping pigs will see new pages from me.  I’m not paranoid, I’m not afraid.  I am easy as fuck to find.  

Poetry forever, my words are immortal.