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.
Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... "The words we speak become our vehicle; what you read is how I digest them.” -Budd