Photo by sergio souza on Unsplash

Sunday, January 19, 2020

And then we keep going up in time—there’s no turning back.

Where’s this Monday going with our lives?

When’s this dream ending this scene?

As life’s a mother-fucker, it continues to birth you sons of bitches.

There will come a time the creative wild-child will write a book in your country.

Words had to make home first.

The dog stares a lot—what’s the move human?

For this Monday mood, think love and never rude.

Don’t wish it were a Friday, these days just repeat themselves—they promise.

If you have a battle going on put it on paper then spit on it.

It’s all a blur now.

If thoughts were as light as my bird’s feather, why does paper carry such merit?

We must think before writing, like a bird must hear before speaking.

A boxer trains before fighting.

But does the sun practice before shining?

We’d been died you see…

We’re a happening of love inviting.

Thoughts to create a Monday your dreams are trying.

How random the difference.

Win finally within.

Breathe earthlins’.


Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

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